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HAMMERSMITH 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


CHRONICLED Btf 

MARK SIBLEY SEVERANCE. 

It 


“ Without a model, and without an ideal model, no one can do well." 

Joubert, translation of Calvert. 

“ For as the steele is imprinted in the soft waxe, so learning is engraven in ye minde 
of an young Impe.” — John Lyly, Euphues. 

“ Namque habitat modico multa Minerva loco.” 

Divina Revelatio Erythrece Sibylla, 1508. 

“ Toil with rare triumph, ease with safe disgrace, 

The problem still for us and all of human race.” 

Lowell, Under the Old Elm. 


j » 

> > > 

BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, 
(Cfce fiitoersibe pre»0, Cambn&oe, 


10251 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two CoDies Received 


MAY 21 1906 


^ Copyright Entry 

rnc^r floC 

CLASS 'Q. XXc, No, 

/ u / q q 

COPY B. ' 


COPYRIGHT 1S7S AND 1906 BY MARK SIBLEY SEVERANCE 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


To HARVARD MEN 


AND 

ALL OTHER GOOD FELLOWS, 
This Chronicle, 

dNDEUT A-KEN TO BEGUILE A LONG SEMI-TROPICAL 
SUMMER, 


Is 3Be&tcateiJ. 


*** It is well for readers to know that these pages were 
written many thousands of miles from the scenes which they 
attempt to describe, — a fact that must be the excuse for 
anachronisms, or other errors, which may have become so 
imbedded in the body of the book as not easily to be removed 
by the reviser’s skill. 

Los Angeles, Cal., 10 Jan., 1877. 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER PASS 

I. In which the Curtain goes up with Cheers . . 9 

n. Some of the Branches of the Stout Hammersmith 

Tree 20 

HI. The Inquisition of the Big-Wigs 33 

IV. A Scrimmage and a Sudden Ally 43 

Y. Which discloses a Modern Forum 64 

YI. A Bundle of Letters 78 

YII. Exhibiting a Lion-Hunter and his Den . . . , 88 

VILE. In which Hammersmith quits the Verdant Fields, 104 

IX. A Fresh Excursion into Verdancy 122 

X. A Little Actress in More Senses than One . . 132 

XI. In which Mr. Tom almost smells Gunpowder . . 153 

XII. Strange Behavior of my Lord Tufton 172 

XIII. Crossing Swords with the Faculty 199 

XIV. The Ham mersmith Rubicon 217 

XV. A Summer Cruise 238 

XVI. Junior Year, with a Second Philippic from Breese, 248 

XVII. A Dangerous Side-Saddle 267 

XVIII. Miss Darby leads a “German,” and Breese looks 

on 286 

XIX. An Old Friend on the Western Horizon ... 311 

XX. A ’Varsity Accident and More Revelations . . 329 

7 


8 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER p agh 

XXI. The Great Quinsigamond Race 344 

XXII. A Mount Desert Episode 365 

XXm. Senior Year, and Another Plunge by Breese . 379 

XXIV. In which a Great Many People are bowled oyer, 386 

XXV. A "Worldling’s Advice, with a Speech from 

Mr. Tom 403 

XXVI. A Gallop for a Senorita 422 

XXVII. War-Notes and Other Surprises 435 

XXVIII. Miss Darby and Mr Tom on their High Horses, 444 

XXIX. In which Some Pretty Barbarians invade the 

Quadrangle 453 

XXX. The World is set Humming for Hammersmith, 470 

XXXI. Class-Day, and a Talk of Spurs 479 

XXX TT. Exeunt Omnes 500 


HAMMERSMITH. 


CHAPTER I. 

IN WHICH THE CURTAIN GOES UP WITH CHEERS. 

“ Quid turbffi est apud forum? ” — Terence. 

M ANY magnificent youth were gathered about the 
steps and through the corridors of Parker’s, — a 
famous Boston hostelry of less than a hundred years ago. 
There was pushing, jostling, loud talking, and excited 
grouping. Coaches and hacks, drags and tilburies, and 
every manner of turnout, continually arriving, set down 
other gorgeous young fellows, who quickly merged and 
were lost in the crowd of their compatriots. Now and 
then, as a coach drew up, a rush was made for it with 
much friendly ambition : its inmates were fairly pulled 
from their seats, and carried off on the shoulders of their 
captors ; while a voice cried out, “Three cheers for Per- 
kins ! ” or, “ Three cheers for Varnum ! ” or, “ Now, fel- 
lows, three times three for Witherspoon!” as various 
favorites appeared ; and sharp, ringing cheers, with an 
explosive snap as of pistols, went up again and again, 
echoing loudly from the stone walls of K’ng’s Chapel 
opposite. 

It is midsummer; and the few passers-by are rather 
amused than annoyed by the jolly demonstrations, — the 

9 


10 


HAMMERSMITH : 


sombre merchants making their way to their families 
summering at Nahant and Cohasset, Swampscott and 
Newport; the smart clerks scurrying from the hot and 
depleted city for a brief season of salt sea-air or moun- 
tain-climbing ; the fair young beauties returned from their 
bronzing summer-pleasures for a day’s tour among shops 
and bazaars ; and the rest. To the eclectic eye of au- 
thority, however, shining above an elaborate tin breast- 
plate, and looking qn from the corner, the noisy hubbub 
is becoming a breach of the city’s peace ; and, after a 
friendly warning or two, — “Softly, young gentlemen; 
not quite so much noise, if you please,” — the shouting 
and cheering are at an end, and the crowd moves in upon 
the interior of the hotel, leaving the street deserted, in the 
hands of the police. 

To a middle-aged gentleman dining with his nephew in 
a far corner of the salle-a-manger , the cause of all this 
street-noise, gradually taking possession of the hotel, and 
storming, as it were, its very citadel, was quite a mystery. 
His pepper-and-salt travelling-suit, of a decidedly English 
cut, covered a well-knit frame somewhat inclining to heavi- 
ness ; and his gray-black hair and closely-clipped gray 
mustache told him to be a man of between forty and 
fifty. A beamish blush on each cheek rendered a closer 
estimate of his age difficult : and, by the same token, the 
orisk waiters under whose hands he found himself so often 
in his roving life were led to forage for the choicest bits, 
the most delicate dishes, for his table ; and they were not 
mistaken in their man. 

All that we care to know further of him at this point in 
his history is, that he is taking his first dinner in Boston 
for a space of twenty years, most of which he has spent 
n China; and that, at this latter stage of his meal, — . 
after he has disposed of the more substantial courses, with 
the aid of a bottle of claret and a half-bottle of sauterne, 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


11 


— a straight cut over the right eye, scarcely visible at 
other times, comes out as a blood-red line across the 
forehead, and, like the Mussulman character-signs, seems 
to point to some early escapade, or encounter of a dubious 
nature. What or when this may have been no man ever 
learned ; and a way which he had of turning somewhat 
fiercely upon you in conversation, with an interrogative 
“ Eh? ” was a sufficient bar to curiosity and impertinence 
on all subjects. And, in the case of the scar, there was 
also the natural instinct which everybody had, — that its 
origin was essentially a private matter, and not the world’s 
concern. Young Buddicombe, indeed, had blandly in- 
quired about it at the English legation in Canton, while 
proffering a cigar; but the indignant “Eh?” and the 
combing-down that he received, were the talk of the colony 
for months afterwards. Capt. Bungalow too, H. B. M. 
Royal Fourth Artillery, and Periwinkle of the American 
legation, and various too inquisitive friends of both sexes 
at home and abroad, had attacked the subject in vain. 
But that is neither here nor there. 

The healthy appetite which he of the blush and the scaj 
carried with him around the world (and what philosopher 
shall say that it hath not its value above learning and 
riches?) was none the less rugged to-day after a dusty 
ride from New York in a much-delayed train. The young 
gentleman opposite, in blue flannel suit and simple black 
scarf, though far from a pygmy himself, was satisfied long 
before his robust and rubicund uncle, at whose red-lined 
forehead he looked with a sort of inquiring wonder ; for, 
to say truth, he had seen it but seldom in their brief 
acquaintance. 

“Uncle,” said he at last, pushing his chair slightly 
away from the table, and choosing a cigar from the tray 
which Charles, the peCof the university bons-vivans , had 
brought with the black coffee, “ was this house in vogue 
when you were in college? ” 


12 


HAMMERSMITH: 


“ Eh? ” said that worthy, setting down his cup. “ ‘ In 
vogue ’ ? God bless my soul, youngster ! it was almost 
a howling wilderness about these parts thirty years ago. 
Far from being ‘ in vogue/ it was not even built or 
thought of. Why — Lord, how it comes back to me! 
On this very spot where we sit — it must have been about 
here — there was a musty old bookstore, Maggliabeck’s, 
where the ‘ digs ’ used to come and poke their learned 
noses into old black-letters and folios, and Heaven knows 
what rubbish. Next door, towards the alley, was a little 
milliner, Madame Grimaldi, with her roomful of sewing- 
girls : your grandmother has had many a fine head-rig 
from that shop, you may depend, sir. On the corner was 
an old coffee-house, Harry — Harry — I forget his name ; 
a round little roly-poly of a chap, with a perennial 4 He, 
he ! * and shaking of his jolly sides. Gad, sir, what 
larks those three shops had to witness sooner or later! 
Madame Grimaldi ! — why, I’ve seen her chasing a dozen 
students out of her front-door, while as many more were 
passing in by the little wicket that gave upon the coffee- 
room in the rear. It was surprising what a rage for old 
vellum and editio princeps, Elzevirs , incunabula , and anti- 
quarian lore generally, took hold of the university all at 
once ; and how of a sudden, just about contemporaneous 
with the opening of Madame Grimaldi’s shop, a coffee- 
drinking mania broke out such as could only be quieted 
by a cosey little supper at Harry Teabun’s : that’s his 
name, — Harry Teabun. Well, sir, one night,” said the 
rosy old boy, leaning forward on the table, and holding his 
cigar on a level with his eye, as though he were talking to 
it, instead of his nephew, — “one night, Jim Minturn 
and I (I admit we had been dining at Harry’s, and ought, 
perhaps, to have gone straight to Cambridge), passing 
through the wicket at the rear of the shop — Good gad, 
Charles! what may all this row be? ” he exclaimed sud 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


13 


denly, turning to the waiter who stood near, as the crowd 
outside, routed by the policemen, rushed pell-mell through 
the corridors, carrying Witherspoon, hero of man} 7 a hotly- 
contested boat-race, on their shoulders, and shouting as 
they went. Nor did they stop until they had surged into 
the dining-room, where, seating themselves at different 
tables, and depositing Witherspoon not far from our 
friends, they broke up into quieter groups ; while the 
waiters, who stood grinning, were saluted with such 
remarks as, “Halloo, Charlie !” “How do, John?” 
“ Trot out your grub now, old boys ! ” and other saluta- 
tions equally familiar. 

“ ‘ Row/ sir? Harvard class-races to-day, sir. Fel- 
lows just coming up for a little jollifying, sir,” returned 
Charles, twisting his napkin. 

“ Indeed ! And who may the young fellow be who was 
brought in on their shoulders? ” 

“ That, sir? — that fellow with the shaved head and the 
mustache? Why, that’s the great Witherspoon, stroke 
of sophomore crew: just won the race, I believe, sir.” 
And the uncle and Tom squared themselves to have a good 
view of this young demigod of the hour and his friends. 

It is a striking group, a motley collection of all classes 
and types of students. What marvellous combinations 
of colors ! What ferocious cravats and collars, striking 
terror into the beholder ! What a museum of canes ! — the 
light, the herculean, the smooth, the knobby, the play- 
thing of the festive sophomore, the dignified symbol of 
the senior. What checks and plaids, diagonals and 
stripes, careless shooting-jacket, English walking-coat, 
trig “ reefer,” and all the varied shapes and styles of 
garment known to Van Nason and Randidge, and the 
other favorite university tailors ! 

Here is little Fennex, temporarily removed from the 
hilarious air of Cambridge by order of the college authon - 


14 


HAMMERSMITH : 


ties for nailing Tutor Lummus into his room one fine 
night, whence that agile instructor of dead languages was 
seen to issue by the window for next morning’s prayers. 
Behold him now, on the eve of returning to the kind 
mother that had spurned him, resplendent in white flan- 
nel suit, with a flaming wonder of crimson neckerchief, a 
pin of death’s head, sleeve-buttons to match, a striped 
horror of a shirt, and, oh ! such a jocund, devil-may-care 
air, as of one that had done great deeds, and deserved 
well of his country forsooth. 

Here are the members of the crews, fine, stalwart fel- 
lows, not over-mindful if their collars flare a bit in front, 
and disclose their well-tanned, muscular throats, — Heaven 
bless them! they have pulled a glorious race to-day, — 
Walton and Kinloch and Miles, a promising freshman 
oar, and Tallman, the celebrated single-scull, with a host 
of others ; and, topping them all, Witherspoon, stroke of 
the sophomores, and head of the river to-day, whose 
fame as a boating-man, mutato nomine , will live long 
among those who have hung up their dripping oars in the 
vestibule of the university. 

Pale scholars, flourishing a feeble hilarity by force of 
example, are scattered here and there, hail-fellows to-day 
with their more athletic comrades, — Dwight and Dana 
and Percy, mighty on the rank-list ; and Latimer, paler 
than the rest, head scholar, and probable orator of the 
juniors. 

Luxurious young aristocrats, patrons of sports, athletic 
graduates, gentlemen from the schools, all classes of the 
young and middle-aged interested in the boating rivalries 
of Alma Mater, are on hand to-day, joining in the demon- 
stration. 

On hand also, and joining in the festivities in a certain 
way peculiar to themselves, but not appreciated by the 
timid in those days of the nearing dog-star, are a nurabci 


HTS HARVARD DAYS. 


15 


of dogs, forbidden property at the university, but clandes- 
tinely nourished in coal-closets and other hidden retreats, 
crouching now among table-legs and chairs, or coming 
out to add their notes in the recognized terrier-like cheers 
which their masters and their friends are giving, — tailless 
ratters, a pointer, a setter, a truculent bull-dog black of 
one eye, which snaps trap-like at flies in dangerous prox- 
imity to trouser-legs, preserving, however, a decent ca- 
nine regard for the immaculate belongings of his master 
Fennex, at whose feet he lies. 

“May I trouble you? ” asked our middle-aged friend, — 
he of the scar and the gray mustache, — leaning toward a 
brawny young lad at an adjacent table. “ Has there been 
a race to-day? and who has won, if I may be so bold? ” 

“Certainly,” replied the youth, turning upon him a 
frank, fresh face, such as we like to fancy typical of col- 
lege men, — “ certainly. Our annual Harvard class-races 
have just closed to-day. Presume you’re a stranger, sir ? 
Great rejoicing to-day, as Witherspoon yonder, — fellow 
next the window, — who pulled stroke of the winning 
crew, is looked upon as the only man to take the place of 
Wayland in the ’varsity next year. ’Twas a great race 
to-day, sir,” continued he, seeing that more information 
would be acceptable. “ The juniors were supposed to be 
the strongest crew by all odds : betting was very much in 
then* favor. But old Witherspoon there rowed a waiting 
race for ’em ; and just after turning the stake (it was a 
mile and a half, and return) — Lord, what a spurt he put 
on ! Came in five lengths ahead ; and Robbins, bow of the 
juniors, as game a fellow as ever pulled an oar, fainted 
immediately after crossing the line. Sorry for him : par- 
ticular pal of mine. But we won the cup, if we did have to 
work for it.” And the glowing young fellow wagged hia 
head, and looked at his open palms, which were a mass of 
blisters and torn flesh. At such cost is the head of the 
*iver gained 


16 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“So you were in the winning crew, eh?” asked oui 
uncle, beaming upon the ardent oarsman with a sort of 
fatherly interest. 

“ I should say so,” returned he. “ My name is Tweedy, 
sir. Allow me to show you the schedule of the race?” 
And, fumbling in his pocket, he produced a card, which 
the uncle and the nephew fell to examining eagerly. It 
ran as follows : — 


HARVARD CLASS-RACES. 
CHARLES-RIYER COURSE. 
Saturday, July 13, 185-. 

Distance a mile and a half, and return. 



Crew. 

Weight. 

Pounds. 

Colors. 

Junior. 

Pine shell, 

40 feet long, 
150 pounds. 

< 

'E. H. Walton (stroke) . . . 

R. M. Latham 

T. Smith 

J. L. Perkins 

C. T. Abbott 

.R. Robbins (bow) 

158 1 

152 

154 

149 

140 

142 . 

• 

Crimson 
handkerchiefs; 
bare backs. 

Sophompre. 
Cedar shell, 

44 feet long, 
162 pounds. 

- 

'C. I. Witherspoon (stroke) . . 

H. E. Kinloch ...... 

M. Varnum 

E. T. Curtis 

G. Willard 

.A. Tweedy (bow) 

162 I 

154 

150 

145 

147 

139 . 

> 

Blue 

handkerchiefs ; 
blue-and-white 
shirts. 

Freshman. 
Pine shell, 

38 feet long, 
141 pounds. 

1 

* 

fl. Miles (stroke) 

G-. A. Loring 

R. L. Quincy 

H. Appleton 

T. B. McGregor 

.V. Green (bow) 

148 *1 

141 

136 

130 
133 

131 , 


Corn-colored 
handkerchiefs ; 
white shirts. ( 

I 


“ Eh ? Bow of the winning crew ? Gad, sir, I congrat- 
ulate you ! And will you do me the honor of presenting 
me to some of your friends? Allow me,” and he handed 
him a small but heavy card, with “ Mr. Gayton Hammer- 
smith ” in small script on it, saying at the same time, 
‘ This is my nephew, Tom Hammersmith ; and we are 
rery much obliged to you for your politeness, sir. — I say, 


H3S HARVARD DAYS. 


17 


Charles,” and between the champagne which was ordered, 
and the introduction to Witherspoon, Walton, Varnum, 
Dana, and others, Mr. Gayton Hammersmith felt the time 
slipping away merrily, and himself slipping back ten, 
twenty, thirty years into the past, when he, too, was a 
jolly young student, draining the cup of enjoyment just 
as eagerly as these gay boating-men, with just as happy 
an oblivion of the morrow. 

And Tom? He felt that he had entered into a new 
world, with his uncle as Jidus Achates; and as he sat 
modestly listening to the general talk of the day’s sports, 
the explanations of defeat, the gratulation for victory, 
the happy banter of the different crews, and his uncle’s 
none the less entertaining side-remarks and footnotes, it 
was only by an effort of the will that he could identify 
himself as the same Tom who had imagined himself such 
a genius, such a sufficiency, such a knowing one, on the 
banks of the Hudson so short a while ago. His dusty 
tutor, and his saddle-horse, and his lame setter, and the 
humdrum life that his widowed mother’s family led, — bah ! 
Here was the life, here were the dashing fellows, for him ! 
Who shall blame him if his past life seemed, in the face 
of the present, a mighty stale and commonplace affair, as 
old Pepys might say, and these cheerful youth the only fit 
companions for one of his mettle ? 

Mr. Hammersmith has risen at last, shaking hands with 
Tweedy (who regrets that he has no “ pasteboard ” about 
liim, — “A. Tweedy, sir : anybody can tell you where I 
am in Cambridge ; glad to see you and your nephew at 
any time ”), and, bowing in his most magnificent Oriental 
fashion to Witherspoon and the rest, walks off with his 
nephew to their rooms. 

“ Regular old brick,” says Witherspoon ; u and young 
un a promising fellow for the crews, eh? Walton, 
Tweedy, I say, three cheers for Mr. Gayton Hammer 
smith I ” 


18 


HAMMERSMITH: 


44 And his nephew,” interposes Tweedy. 

44 No, sub-freshman, hang him! ,, says little Fennex, 
universal hater of his race, because of his recent unpleas- 
antness at Cambridge. 

And Mr. Hammersmith turned again to bow his 
acknowledgments ; while Tom, who had caught just 
enough of the above colloquy to make him a bit unhappy, 
marched stiffly out of the dining-hall. 

44 Well, Tom, my boy, what do you think of your new 
compatriots, if they are to be compatriots, eh? Rather a 
sudden introduction to the 4 Vita Nuova,’ don’t you 
think?” 

44 Jolly set of fellows, I should say, sir. Some of them 
are regular toppers ; but there are others that I know I 
should hate. What’s the name of the little fellow in 
white flannel? ” 

44 1 don’t remember. Don’t think I was introduced. 
Why?” 

44 Oh, nothing,” said Tom, who felt that only a mortal 
combat with this particular young student, author of the 
obnoxious epithet 44 sub-freshman,” would satisfy him in 
his present frame of mind ; and his uncle smiled slyly. 

They went to their rooms, and passed the small fraction 
of the evening that was left in discussing the men with 
whom they had been thrown, — Tom dissecting them in 
rather an off-hand, provincial way; the uncle according 
them that liberality of construction which he wished 
granted to himself, and which the man of the world knows 
so well how to bestow. 

As Tom passed into the connecting room to retire, the 
songs of the men below, now gathered in smoking-room 
and billiard-hall, came pulsing up through the house, scat- 
tering what slight clouds might have arisen in his sky; 
and he closed his eyes, with his mind filled with roseate 
pictures and happy auguries. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


19 

A half-hour later, as his uncle rang to despatch a mes- 
sage to Mr. Tom’s mother, announcing their safe arrival, 
he looked into Tom’s room, and saw him lying asleep, 
breathing quietly. The fond old gentleman looked at him 
earnestly for a moment, and, with a hearty “ God bless his 
young heart ! ” turned to his table, and sat for a long time, 
with his head resting on his hand, in thought. 

The window was open ; and, as he sat thus in marked 
contrast to his gayer self at dinner, the swelling strains 
of “ Fair Harvard,” echoing up from the street below, 
where the “ student-men ” were setting off for Cambridge, 
floated in upon the night-air to this gray-haired cosmopoli- 
tan, busy with the memories of his youth. 

He arose, and leaned a while from the window, whence, 
with a “ heigh-ho! ” and a yawn, he turned before long 
to his couch, — happy refuge alike of the man of the 
world and the ardent schoolboy, the sorrowing mother 
and the “ too, too happy ” belle fresh from her “ too, too 
lovely” ball ; anodyne alike for the griefs and the joys, 
the hopes, fears, hates, and loves, of men. 


20 


HAMMER SMITH : 


CHAPTER II. 


SOME OF THE BRANCHES OF THE STOUT HAMMERSMITH TREE. 

“Your family 1 — I don’t believe you ever had a grandfather.” — Foote. 

“ Ovis sequitur ovem et filius sequitur opera patri sui.” 


Paulus Fagitjs, Eptetola Nuncupatoria, 1642. 


HERE had been a Hammersmith in the university 



-L from time immemorial. I doubt if the chapel-bell 
could have rung, or the Cambridge town-clock have 
marked the hours of day and night for burgher and stu- 
dent life alike, if they had not known that they were 
serving some youthful member of this flourishing New- 
England family, calling him reluctantly to morning and 
evening prayers in the olden time, and scoring off the 
hours, which were so many milestones on his way from 
downy youth to confident young manhood. 

Certainly the various Hammersmiths of the last two 
centuries had done their full share in harassing these two 
monitors of duty, from that colonial night, long past, 
when the nomadic guardian of the peace, patrolling the 
thin village, and calling the hours of the night in ancient 
fashion, captured a Hammersmith in act of draping the 
respectable parish clock-dial in a sheet, showing the 
maternal initials “ M. E. II.” stitched in red in its cor- 
ner, down to these latter days, when his not unworthy 
descendants and kin wage war with paint-brush and tar- 
uot, hammer and chisel, against “ the chiding of the 
tharp-tongued bell,” and return from Astolfian voyages 
to the steeple, laden with clock-hands and fractions of 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


21 


gilded numerals, to the no slight disturbance of the town’s 
business on the morrow. 

No wonder, that, when in stout condition, they clang 
and whir with an almost sentient malice at the thought 
that they are sending some scion of this vexatious stock 
unwillingly about his duty ; as though they said, “ There, 
bang ! Your grandfather choked my inverted throat with 
coal-tar, thermometer at zero ; and your uncle appropri- 
ated my clapper one cloudy night. Bang, bang ! — out 
of your snug bed there, and away to dim prayers, bang ! ” 
Or the clock, “ By Chronos, I’m even with you, Sir Ham- 
mersmith, for all your insults to my face, and all your 
inherited trophies from my tower ! Plump eleven o’clock 
I mark. Your Latin recitation, too many times evaded, 
calls you in. And, by the way, here goes my pretty 
Edith Summerdale, as blooming as the morning, fresh as 
are my own new hands ; and she walks without an escort. 
A way to your classroom ! ” 

The university printer, too, and he who concocts the 
immortal roll of enigmatic honors for the sons of Alma 
Mater, the M.M.S.S., in Congr. Amer. Deleg. et Rerum- 
pub. Foed. Repr. et Senator, S.T.D. Neo-Coes, and such, 
— what would they have thought if at least one new Ham- 
mersmith were not under their hands for each triennial 
catalogue? Indeed, I have heard the latter gentleman 
declare, — and the curious may satisfy themselves by an 
easy computation, — that, if all the honors and titles and 
name-handles of all the Hammersmith graduates were 
brought together, they would make so formidable a list, 
that the university would feel prouder than ever of the 
family, and w r ould straightway proceed to mark its ap- 
preciation of their concentrated worth by adding fresh 
honors and grander titles. 

Everybody in the service of the university, from the 
president down through spectacled professors, important 


22 


HAMMERSMITH : 


tutors, nimble proctors, punctual janitor, even to tlie 
indent “goodies,” and the itinerant “old clo’ ” man, 
who may almost be said to be in the service of the uni- 
versity, so faithful are his visits and his ministrations, — 
all were accustomed to the sturdy name of Hammersmith, 
and acquainted, if only through dim tradition, with the 
fame of the perennial family, its prowess in all manner 
of sports and pranks, its sporadic saintliness, its generous 
open-heartedness, the intermittent flame of scholarship 
which shone along the line, and above all with its high 
sense of honor, reaching almost to a dangerous sensitive- 
ness. 

So regular, as I have said, was the succession of the 
bearers of this name, that the university would have felt 
a certain incompleteness without one or more of them in 
its catalogue and on its sacrificial benches. What may 
have been the origin of the family name, whether it 
pointed back to a hardier Norseman era, when the smiths 
of the hammer, the workers in iron and brass, were guilds 
by themselves, and held in higher repute than in the 
more refined civilization of to-day, is not our purpose to 
inquire. Certainly the robust traits which that origin 
might imply were not lacking in “their joyous gene- 
alogy,” as Sterne would call it; for they were a hardy, 
eupeptic race, with a Norseman’s love of exposure and 
adventure, and an occasional inspired singer among them 
to illumine their rather dreary sameness of virtues and 
vices. 

In the small days of the university, when the grim life 
of the colonies was vexed by “ French Papists on the one 
hand, Indian Pagans on the other, and the ambushments 
of Satan to fill up any gaps of their leaving,” to adopt the 
phrase of a lovingly-remembered professor ; when more 
than half of the graduates became clergymen, and went 
forth to fight the barbarous world, the flesh, and the devD 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


23 


(with a wide generalization sufficient to include Quakers 
and Anabaptists, as well as the more obvious heathen) , — 
there was a goodly crop of Reverends Hammersmith an- 
nually produced, hard-smiting, stern-visaged gentr} r , who 
could do a day’s farming, lay a stone wall, carry their 
matchlocks against the Indians, or do the Lord’s work, 
with equal earnestness and success. 

On an ancient commencement, when these reverend gen- 
tlemen had come on horseback, carefully attended, from 
their distant parishes in the wilderness, you might have 
seen them walking sedately in small-clothes, ruffs, and 
steeple-crowned hats, about the open plain, skirted on the 
east by marshes and ox-pastures, whortleberry-patches 
and nascent orchards, where is now the campus , with its 
arching elms and well-ranged quadrangle, flanked with 
halls. A brother Hammersmith from his Medford farm, 
or the far-off Thule of Plymouth, or a cousin of different 
cloth, from the Indian war in Connecticut, draws near ; 
and these ancient worthies exchange the lusty gossip of 
the period with a gusto born of family pride, and a sense 
of their rare meetings. What stalwart figures ! Of what 
a larger life they seem, as seen through the distorting 
mists of intervening years ! 

And so down through the history of the university, the 
names and exploits, the professions and the glories, of the 
Hammersmiths might be gathered, far too numerous for 
the scope of this chronicle. It was a Hammersmith, in 
1665, when the only Indian graduate, Cheeshahteaumuck, 
was about taking his degree, who stepped up and defended 
him from the insults of the Seldens and Vassals, Boling- 
brokes and Cokes, and other young aristocrats of the 
time, who were taunting him with his doubtful parentage. 
And, as if following out this kindly trait, it was the Rev. 
Jabez Hammersmith who aided the apostle Eliot and the 
interpreting Indian in the translation of the Bible into 


24 


HAMMERSMITH : 


the native tongue, and followed the apostle among the 
Naticks and other tribes in his efforts at Christianity. 

There were strong-limbed, martial Hammersmiths in the 
Pequot, King Philip’s, and French and Indian wars, un- 
doing the works of the Rev. Jabez ; and, by a still more 
curious inversion, it was a madcap of a Hammersmith, 
who, many years later, fired, perhaps, by the traditions of 
his ancestors, was brought before the college government 
by an indignant Cambridge citizen for appropriating a pair 
of Indian images from off his manorial gate-posts one 
cloudy November night. 

There was always a pushing vitality about them, which 
must find its vent in some way ; if not by the hoarse 
channel of war, and the thunders of anathema from the 
pulpit, then by the tamer outlet of mere wantonness. If 
all the superfluous animal spirits of a race like the Ham- 
mersmiths could only be utilized from youth to old age, 
what an era of improvement might dawn for the world ! 

When that “ wicked book,” “ The Wonders of the 
Invisible World,” by Robert Calef, arrived in the colony 
from London, and was burned in the college-yard by 
order of President Mather, the records of the family set 
forth that there was a young sophomore Hammersmith 
present at the bonfire, dancing about it in great glee, in 
company with his fellows, and seeing in it a precedent, 
and a high one, for the later fires and explosions and 
effig3 T -burnings which successive generations of students 
have maintained in almost unbroken illumination, like the 
sacred fire of the ancient Roman colonies. 

To advance to later days, you may be sure, that, in the 
hot times of the Revolution, the Hammersmiths were on 
hand, and acted their parts with spirit and dignity. 

When the General Court, complaining of the British 
troops and cannon in Boston, was transferred by the 
governor’s orders to Cambridge, and held its sessions 


ms HARVARD DAYS. 


25 


for a period in the college chapel, the student-life was 
brought into vitalizing nearness to the stirring events of 
the day ; and when James Otis, himself a graduate of 
1743, before the opening of the court one morning, deliv- 
ered one of his most impassioned orations, and, tinning 
lo the large body of students present, besought them to 
remember the example of the classic ages which they 
were then studying, and, reminding them that their time 
to do and suffer for their country might come, closed with 
the watchword, 44 Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori ” 
there were at least two Hammersmiths in the throng who 
were fired to a high pitch of patriotism, and rendered 
good account of themselves in the war which began soon 
after. They were even then in martial training Major 
and Orderly Sergeant Hammersmith of the Marti Mcrcu- 
curian Band, a company of the most imposing students, 
with frequent parades, and a bannei with the motto 
44 Tam Marti quam Mer curio.” Of all that dazzling 
squad of young students in blue coats faced with white, 
nankeen breeches, top-boots, and cocked hats, the major 
and the orderly sergeant were conspicuous for not only 
their stalwart figures and soldierly bearing, but a certain 
seeming scorn of their trappings, which became them 
well. 

The major, Jacob Hammersmith, accompanied Wash- 
ngton through most of his varying campaigns, and was 
present at the surrender of Yorktown with Rochambeau. 
The orderly sergeant, Benjamin, lost his life in that 
gallant charge at Stony Point in 1779, under 44 Mad 
Anthony,” where the troops advanced up a steep hill in 
double column, officers at the head, with fixed bayonets, 
without firing a shot. It was a grandson of the latter. 
Col. Rupert Hammersmith, that led the famous charge at 
Buena Vista, seventy years later, which routed the Mexi- 
can Lancers, and turned the tide of battle in our favor. I 


HAMMERSMITH : 


V j,ve it from fellow-officers of his on the battle-field, that 
when he lifted his hat, and shouted, “ Charge, gentlemen, 
charge! ” as though he were leading the company of De 
Champernoun into France, the troops seemed inspired by 
his noble command, and swept down the hill, and over the 
Mexicans as though they were field-mice. 

When the President of the United States, Monroe, 
visited the university in 1817 ; when Lafayette, in his 
triumphal tour of 1824, came to receive the plaudits and 
the honors of college government and students alike ; and 
later, in 1833, when President Jackson was welcomed to 
Cambridge, — you may be sure, that, among the officers 
and privates of the smart Harvard Washington Corps 
which did escort-duty on those occasions, the distinguished 
\isitors’ eyes were attracted by the soldierly figures of the 
Hammersmith famil} , and that at least the hard-featured 
hero of New Orleans made favorable comment on their 
martial bearing. It was a Hammersmith, indeed, who 
was called up and complimented by President Monroe, 
together with the commander of the corps, who was 
offered a position at West Point if he would choose to 
accept it. 

The records of the family do not show it, but I have it 
from a trustworthy source (the son of the college janitor 
of the day) , that the student-marshal who stepped from 
the ranks of the procession to offer an umbrella to the 
venerable Lafayette, as a protection against the August 
sun, was a Hammersmith, — father or uncle of that Rupert 
who distinguished himself at Buena Vista. We all know 
that the genial old marquis turned to him, and said, 
“ Thank you, young gentleman ; but I love the sun in all 
its warmth and all its brightness.” 

If we were to give a list, however, of all the exploits 
of the undergraduate Hammersmith family, all the college 
societies to which they belonged, and sports which the* 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


27 


patronized, as well as the literary honors which from time 
to time were nung upon the family- tree, we should be not 
only overstepping our limits, but taking the wind out of 
the sails of our hero, whose career is to follow. Suffice it, 
that in all the forrays and larks of student-life, the hazings, 
the rebellions, the sign-filchings, the paintings of obnox- 
ious tutors’ doors, the stealing of college Bibles from the 
chapel, attacks on recognized institutions like the clock 
and the bell, burning of effigies, and blowing up of build- 
ings, (innocent sports these !) the daring Hammersmiths 
could always be counted on to lend a hand, and generally, 
if it must be confessed, to bear the brunt of the affair. 
In all the societies, — be they sporting, convivial, dra- 
matic, nautical, musical, military, purely literary, or 
purely religious, Marti-Mercurian, Med. Fac., Lazy Club, 
Navy, Washington Corps, Ilermetick, ’ AxQtpoloyovfjisvoi, 
Patriotic Association, AeiTtvocfuyot, Pierian Sodality, Glee 
Club, Pudding, Porcellian, Institute of 1770, and the 
swarm of Greek-letter societies of later days, — members 
of the family were generally found among the most active 
and ardent of their supporters ; and in the prizes, exhi- 
bitions, and commencements, as well as in that no less 
important catalogue of the honors bestowed by the votes 
of the class, the spoils that fell to the Hammersmiths 
were by no means inconsiderable. 

The dire truth must be stated, however, that of late 
their literary achievements were yearly growing less and 
less. Whether the superabundant vitality which had 
worked itself off in more vigorous ways in early colonial 
days was restive under modern restraints, or that the fam- 
ily was returning to a wild state, — like those neglected 
apple-trees which one sometimes sees in pastures and 
by-lanes, — certain it is that latterly the honor-list of the 
university held fewer and fewer of the time-hallowed 
dames, and that oftener and oftener a Hammersmith was 


28 


HAMMERSMITH : 


called before the dread faculty, charged with some con- 
tinued neglect of duty, or with complicity in some wild 
midnight escapade. 

It was especially in the second year that this correction 
was apt to be applied ; and I regret to say that many a 
Hammersmith had in that year been either temporarily 
suspended from the university for a certain period, or 
remanded utterly to the limbo of ordinary citizen-life. So 
it came about that sophomore year was at length regarded 
as a sort of Rubicon for the family. Paternal Hammer- 
smiths gave their sons sage advice on entering its danger - 
ous terms, while related Hammersmiths inquired anxiousty 
if Tom or Rupert or Nat had been suspended yet. 

It was looked upon rather as the fulfilment of prophecy 
than as a novelty, therefore, that, some time before the 
middle of the present century , the rumor rushed through 
the far and near branches of the stock, that Mr. Gayton 
Hammersmith, sophomore, — the youngest son of Mr. 
Nathaniel Hammersmith of Quincy, — the favorite of his 
class, and first man in their sports, but, alas ! not in their 
class-rooms, had been expelled from the university. “ For 
continued neglect of the college curriculum, and late dis- 
orderly conduct too marked to be passed over in silence,’ * 
the note of the president put it ; the said disorderly con- 
duct having been the heading of a crowd which had col- 
lected all the barber-poles and available signs of the town, 
and burned them en masse in front of the chapel, where, 
the following morning, the rushing throng of worshippers 
had to pass through their charred remains. This rumor 
was confirmed a few days later by the appearance at home 
of the young man in question, who, for obvious reasons, 
by the way, had been passing by the significant name of 
Gay Hammersmith, at Cambridge, for many months past. 
He invaded placid Quincy with the airs of a conqueror 
in most gorgeous raiment, and carried him self as bravely 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


29 


as a prince, receiving as so much homage to his powers 
the silent stares of his neighbors and townsmen, and the 
timid wonder of his fair young friends, who thought him 
“ awfully wicked/’ but still “ so fascinating ! ” 

The humiliation and disgrace which Mr. Gayton earned 
off so bravely, and which nobody seemed to hold impor- 
tant, seeing the young gentleman’s happy manner and his 
father's ready forgiveness (he had been a young Hammer- 
smith once himself) , came with especial heaviness to his 
elder brother Richard, a senior at the time of the expul- 
sion, and rightly looked upon as the most promising of the 
family' for several generations. As the same stock will 
produce, now a mighty scholar and now a mighty brawler, 
now a saint and now one in whom Lavater’s “ devil- 
moments ” preponderate, there were at the same time in 
college these two brothers of essentially different tem- 
peraments and tastes, — Richard, the scholarly, the re- 
served, the sensitive even to shrinking ; and Gayton, the 
hilarious, the athletic, the hail-fellow of his class. It was 
a bitter experience for Richard, this seeing his brother go 
on from bad to worse in spite of his repeated protests, 
and finally end his university career so ingloriously : it 
seemed a blow to his own amour pr opr e, or at least to his 
family pride ; and he said afterwards that he felt it had 
affected his whole after-life, — so sensitive he was ! 

Did space allow, we might follow these brothers in their 
subsequent variant fortunes, and observe how differently 
the Fates parcelled out their lots. We might follow the 
younger as he sailed away to China, and chronicle his 
golden progress in that land of the almond-eyed, — a 
golden progress which soon procured him the name of 
“The Duke” among his friends, from a certain lordly 
and imperious manner natural to him. We might follow 
the rider till we found nim living in a mild, ecclesiastical 
way, as the Rev. Richard Hammersmith, in his little par- 


80 


hammersmith : 


sonage “Ivy Hill,” on the banks of the Hudson, with 
his wife, his sons Tom and Dick, and his sweet 3 oung 
daughter Mabel. 

If we could linger on this portion of our story, we might) 
too, dwell for a brief space upon that sad, sad day when 
Mr. Gayton arrived from China just in time to have his 
brother die in his arms, — the same arms which had 
brought him such fame in his athletic college-days, and 
which now caught up the tall, wasted preacher as if he 
had been a babe, and bore him about the house from one 
sunny spot to another, until his eyes were closed forever, 
and his soul was bound on its last brightening journey. 
We might follow the jovial, sunny-hearted “Duke,” as 
he strove to comfort the forlorn widow, and bring order 
out of the business chaos in which her affairs had been 
left by her husband. We might follow him as he argued 
and protested, and argued again, in favor of Mr. Tom’s 
being forthwith prepared for the university. 

“ It will break my heart to have him go,” she had said, 
shaking her head. But the dear old Gayton had painted 
Mr. Tom as a hero, returning every half-year to gladden 
her eyes and soul with his load of honors ; and she smiled 
feebly. 

“ I shall, at any rate, go and live in Cambridge, and 
look after him,” she continued, yielding a point. But 
he laughed at the idea of coddling a Hammersmith. 

“ Might as well bring up a j r oung eagle on a bottle, you 
dear, little anxious mamma ! No, no, God bless me ! 
let him flop about for himself a while. What if he does 
uave a fall or two? I’ve watched him: he’s the right 
stuff, madam ; and, on the word of a Hammersmith, he’ll 
go through it all, and come out a man to make your poor 
broken heart dance, ma’am.” 

And then, if we were telling the story of young Ham- 
mersmith’s “coaching” daj’s, we might follow him foi 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


31 


the two and a half years that he was under the hatds of 
Mr. Andrew Pipon (H. U. 185-) , a learned young tutor 
with the self-importance of recent graduation still dewy 
upon him ; showing how he advanced in amazingly quick 
fashion through his classics and mathematics and history ; 
how he rode and swam, and pulled an oar better and better 
as his strength developed, — a fact which pleased his 
uncle’s stout heart even more than his commendable prog- 
ress in his studies, as the cheery “ Duke ” rushed on from 
his Boston club now and then, and beamed upon the still 
life at “ Ivy Hill ; ” how his young soul was fired with 
the marvellous, and, I must own, rather apocryphal stories 
poured into his ear by his neighbor Bob Ruddiman, a 
student at Yale, in recounting the wonderful deeds of him- 
self and his class ; how he thrashed to the bellowing point 
the hulking son of Mangul Wurzel, the corner grocer, who 
had called him a “ mammy-dear,” or some such obnoxious 
name, returning with bloody face and torn jacket to burst 
in upon the sewing-society in full cackle in his mother’s 
drawing-room ; and how his mother alternated between 
solicitude and a flickering ambition for her boy, whose 
rapid progress she almost begrudged, as it brought him 
nearer and nearer the day of separation, — the day when 
he would leave her mild ways, and take his place among 
those noisy, important, conceited, “horrid” college-men. 

But that day at last came. Mr. Andrew Pipon, having 
exhausted his power of “ tutoral glazing,” and declaring 
his pupil amply prepared to pass the severest examination, 
if only he would have confidence, was dismissed by Mr. 
Gayton Hammersmith, who had arrived a few days before. 
The worthy tutor, not quite so all-knowing as on his arri- 
val, but with fuller purse and figure, left for his mother and 
sisters in Massachusetts (whom he was largely support- 
ing from his earnings) , with the best of feelings between 
himself and Tom. 


32 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“Come and see me in Cambridge, won’t you, old iel- 
low?” Tom had said, pressing his hand warmly at part- 
ing. Then, suddenly recollecting himself, he had added, 
“ that is, if I pass the confounded old examinations, which 
1 very much doubt.” 

And then, with a mixed feeling of confidence and dis- 
may, and with a large part of his technical acquirements, 
such as the irregular Greek verbs and mathematical for* 
mulse, confided in a small hand to numerous little cards 
(which he carried about with him, and studied at odd 
intervals) , young Tom soon after left for Boston, with his 
uncle, in a rain of mingled tears and blessings from his 
mother. 

He had turned on leaving. With his arm around her, 
he said, — 

“ Don’t carry on so, my little mother ! I’m not in }^et : 
perhaps I may never be. But, whatever happens, I shall 
always love you just the same. And you can depend that 
I will never do any thing unworthy of you or father : 
can’t you? ” 

“That I can, my dear boy,” she answered, smiling 
tearfully ; and, with a kiss and a last wave of the hand, he 
was gone, — the boy going forth full of hope to meet the 
shadowy future ; the mother remaining to live, and brood 
over the more real past, and to pray for her dear boy ii 
the new life to which he was rushing so gleefully. 


UTS HARVARD DAYS. 


83 


CHAPTER IH. 

THE INQUISITION OP THE BIG- WIGS. 

“.Academic meads trembling with the earthquake of Athenian peripatetic* 
pacing up and down.” — Richard op Burt. 
u II piu bel fior ne coglie.” — Della Cruscan Motto. 

I F the merry scene at Parker’s had seemed to young 
Tom a very startling novelty, before which all his 
previous life sank into the commonplace, his first sight 
of the noble halls and elm-shadowed vistas of the univer- 
sity was something never to be quite forgotten. 

Mr. Tom had paid but little attention to the uninviting 
surroundings through which they had been passing — he 
and the “ Duke ” — in a hack, one morning not long 
after the going-up of the curtain at Parker’s ; the uncle, 
indeed, beginning to think that the youngster was taking 
it all “ deusedly as a matter of course, begad ! ” Tom’s 
heart began to beat quickly, however, and he leaned eagerly 
out of the carriage-window when they came in sight of the 
solid halls and picturesque grounds of the old university, 
— the Gothic Library ; the massive, granite Boylston Hall, 
cutting off a view of the quadrangle ; the vistas of arch- 
ing elms and distant halls, whose names even Tom did 
not yet know ; and scurrying students and slow-pacing 
professors scattered here and there. The “ Duke,” lying 
comfortably in one corner of the hack, was amused at the 
) oung fellow’s sudden interest, and smiled to think that 
he had ever felt the same quickening of blood in himself, 


84 


HAMMERSMITH : 


not many decades ago, at sight of this same brick and 
mortar and stone. 

If he had scoured both hemispheres since then ; had 
made his bow in palaces, and been pilloried at great din 
ners, with a dowager countess on either hand ; had hob- 
nobbed with the great and the blase from China to Peru, 
and had begun to feel that every thing was a bit stale, — 
he was not displeased to watch the zest of ardent young 
fellows like Tom, rushing headlong to the great show of 
life. What confiding young fools they are ! 

A half-hour later they stood in the study of Professor 
Rajdand Darby, on a retired Cambridge street, presenting 
a letter of introduction from the late tutor, Mr. Andrew 
Pipon, which, by the way, as a specimen of pedantic phra- 
seolog} r , might well bear transcript into these pages. 

They were a striking couple, — the slim, broad-shoul- 
dered nephew, with a straight-in-the-eye look which caught 
you at once, and, for one so young, a large share of that 
shadowy somewhat called a presence, which was sure to 
announce itself the moment that he entered a room with 
others ; the uncle, larger of girth than when he climbed 
the barber-poles some thirty years ago, broad-chested like 
Tom, and with the rather distinguishing marks of the scar, 
the close gray mustache and slightty-waving grayish hair, 
before mentioned. 

“ Ah ! Mr. Hammersmith and Mr. Hammersmith. I 
am very happy to meet 3am. May I not ask? — 3 r es, it 
must be ! Mr. Hammersmith, if I am not greatly mis- 
taken, 3 t ou left Cambridge just before I entered. Your 
fame^lingereil after you, sir,” said the professor ; at which 
the two elders smiled a broad smile, to Tom’s wonder. 

“ Yes : the air of Cambridge did not agree with me. — 
It has grown much more healthy since then, Tom,” said 
the “ Duke,” turning to his nephew ; and the “ Duke ” 
find the professor went off into a fit of explosive laughter 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


35 


which Tom made his uncle explain the moment thej> were 
outside the door, — the young innocent ! 

“ And so you are coming up to live among us, Mr. 
Hammersmith? ” said the professor, addressing Tom. 

“ I can hardly say that as yet, sir: I wish I might! 
But I am going to try pretty hard,” answered Tom. 

“Try, man!” interposed the “Duke.” “It’s the 
same thing, or you’re no Hammersmith, sir ! Try ! God 
bless me ! ” 

“I’m very glad to welcome you, very glad indeed,” 
continued the professor. “You will be pleased to learn 
that the class this year promises to be exceedingly large. 
The schools are sending up very large numbers, and, as 
far as I can hear, of very good material. But it is draw- 
ing near to nine o’clock. Shall I accompany you to the 
university, and introduce you to some of the examiners ? 
My duties do not carry me there to-day ; but I shall be 
most happy to do what I can to make the plunge easier 
to you. Have you been in Cambridge before? No? 
Well, I hope, Mr. Hammersmith, that you and your 
nephew will make my house your headquarters while here, 
and do me the honor of dining with me to-day.” 

And the “ Duke ” accepted with a courtly bow, and a 
“ Thanks, very much ; ” while Tom, as they walked to the 
college, found himself talking with unusual open-hearted- 
ness to the professor, to whom he had warmed at once, as 
he saw the genuine interest with which he had welcomed 
them, and the sympathy with which he entered into his 
own rather anxious feelings. The appointments of his 
study, too, — a collection of fragrant pipes on the mantel, 
a gun in a corner, a pair of horns over the door, a mysteri- 
ous black sign with “ R. Darby ” in white letters on the 
lintel of the door, and many other cheering, unprofessional 
marks which caught his eye, — told him that here was a 
man not of the stamp of Mr. Andrew Pipon and the typi- 


36 


HAMMERSMITH : 


cal professor, but one in whom he could look for hearty 
fellow-feeling and an appreciation of the young-man 
world. 

Would you follow Mr. Tom through the details of ills 
two-days’ martyrdom? If the familiars of the rack and 
thiunb-screw had your brother in charge, gentle reader ; 
or your son, my dear madam, were doomed to sit for a 
period with his precious feet in the stocks (which may 
the Fates forefend !) — would you be present to watch his 
torture? Well, perhaps you would, with that tender 
compassion which is one of your sweetest possessions, or 
perhaps from a spirit of inquisition in another sense, for 
which man-moralists give you credit. But I like to think 
that you would prefer to keep out of the way while the 
screws were turning, and the boards were pressing, and 
be on hand to receive the poor fellow after it was all over, 
and cover him with the mantle of your s} T mpathy and love. 

Who that has been through it does not remember, as 
though of yesterday, the restless commingling of candi- 
dates, like a band of wild horses as yet without a leader? 
The clannish body from the great schools, — Exeter, 
Andover, Dixwell’s, Boston and Roxbury Latin, — each 
with petty chiefs of its own, and each destined to strive, 
in a measure, for the mastery of the class? the irregulars 
from distant cities, and private tutors, and from country 
hamlets, where the departure for Cambridge of the solitary 
candidate — hero of the village Debating Society — was 
the event of the summer, hamlet- shaking ? and Harvard 
Hall, with its portraits of placid benefactors of the uni- 
versity smiling down upon many a lad floundering in an 
ebbing flood of classics, and consuming his pencil in 
despair ; its long rows of tables and benches of symbolic 
greenness ; an awful knot of professors and big-wigs 
gathered in the middle, opposite the door; with soft- 
footed tutors and proctors, quick of eye, and suspicious 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


87 


from recent personal knowledge, patrolling the lilies, — 
suave of speech, but, oh! so negative in answer? the 
various smaller rooms in Harvard and University repeat- 
ing this scene on the second day, the day of the viva voce 
examinations ? and, giving the throb to all this machin- 
ery, the fervent youth, working as for life at the benches, 
rushing from one examination to another, or powwowing, 
Indian fashion, on the small grass-plats by University 
steps (a favorite rallying-point in Hammersmith’s day), 
discussing their papers, their success, their professors, 
whom they already begin to call “ Old Darby,” or “ Old 
Brimblecom,” or “ Old Bone,” and beginning even now 
to crystallize, like all new bodies of men, around certain 
leaders and oracles ? — ah ! how it all comes up before me 
again these thousands of miles away ! 

They were in the midst of an unusually stiff mathemat- 
ical paper, on the first day, when Professor Darby walked 
quietly to Tom, whom he had seen squirming, and consult- 
ing his hair for some minutes, and asked, — 

“Well, sir, how are you getting on? ” 

“Making a pretty bad mess of it, I’m afraid. I’d 
give a year’s growth to know the answer to No. 8 ! ” 

“Yes? Let me see.” And glancing at the paper and 
Tom’s manuscript, which was in a bold, large hand, he 
added, “ Well, it is rather a tough one ; but you’re coming 
on all right; don’t despair,” and walked off towards a 
sturdy young fellow in the corner, whom Tom had noticed 
as a man of some importance among his fellows. They 
whispered together ; and the 3 T oung man looked towards 
Tom. 

After this paper was over, and as the young men were 
separating for dinner, Professor Darby appeared at the 
outer door, and, taking Tom by the arm, approached the 
young fellow with whom he had whispered, saying, 
“ George, I want to introduce you to Mr. Hammersmith, 


HAMMERSMITH : 


— Mr. Tom Hammersmith. My nephew, George Goldie, 
Mr. Hammersmith. He’s a stranger, George, and I would 
like you to introduce him among your friends.” And the 
two young fellows, eying each other as though they were 
selecting members for a crew, shook hands powerfully 
(after the manner of boating-men) , and walked into each 
other’s acquaintance and tastes, hopes and fears, at once, 
meanwhile taking their way to the professor’s to dinner. 

And the “Duke”? Well, he walked about the old 
familiar neighborhood during these two days of trial ; he 
smoked the professor’s study full of smoke a dozen times 
or more ; he waited anxiously for his nephew at the college- 
doors now and then, and asked Professor Darby again and 
again, “ Gad, I hope the young fellow’s going to pass 
muster, eh? ” In fact, old cosmopolitan as he was, and 
cool philosopher, he was most uncommonly interested on 
Tom’s account, and betrayed his solicitude to an extent 
for which he severely reprimanded himself when looking 
in the glass next morning. But the beaming young fellow 
came up with such a smiling face after every encounter, — 
as the Hammersmith fashion was, after success and 
defeat alike, — that the anxious old boy was confident it 
would all come out right, and was proud, at any rate, to 
have such a handsome and resolute young candidate in his 
charge. 

I suppose that the man waiting to be hung, or the soldier 
blindfolded standing to be shot, or Miss Arabella waiting 
to be taken out in the “ German,” and only a half-hour 
left, or the law} T er expecting his first brief, or any other 
anxious person in any expectant mood that you may 
ucture to yourself, is in a rather unenviable state of sus- 
pended animation, or of animation so intense as almost 
to seem breathless. But I doubt if the position of any 
of them can be compared with that of the young candi- 
date who waited in old University Chapel in Hammer 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


3S 


smith’s time (it is bisected in two directions now, I hear, 
and devoted to other use) , and waited and waited till his 
name was called by Fate, and he left his friends — as 
others had left him, one by one — to meet the dread pres- 
ence in the faculty room, — the arsenal of so much direful 
enginery. Why the names of the freshman candidates 
were not posted, as abroad, or the papers handed about 
in a more wholesale way, the aspirant of earlier days 
wondered in vain, but concluded with imagining that the 
faculty had prescribed the solitary method as a sort of 
civilized barbarism, or running of the gauntlet, for the 
more stoical training of its neophytes. 

“ Goldie ! ” had been called, “ Penhallow ! ” and “ Free- 
mantle!” and many others whom Tom did not know, 
personally had been called. Shouts were heard outside, 
below stairs, as the successful men rushed into the arms 
of their classmates. And at last, when Tom had nearly 
twiddled a button off the cushion on which he sat, “Ham- 
mersmith ! ” was shouted by the proctor at the door ; and 
Tom scuttled into the faculty room, where the president, 
iEgidius Dummer , 1 stood holding a paper towards him, 

1 It cannot be too emphatically stated, that the rather nebulous characters of 
Dummer and other members of the college faculty introduced in these pages are 
purely imaginary. So true is this, that the biographer of Hammersmith did not 
even know the name of the honored occupant of the presidential chair at Cam- 
t. ridge when ASgidius Dummer was first selected for service in Hammersmith’s 
day. A brother alumnus who was captured on his travels by the present chroni- 
cler, and made to wade through a sea of manuscript, whether he would or not, 
has kindly suggested that a suspicion of caricature might be raised by the rather 
grotesque name chosen for the head of the university. This note is appended 
to lay that suspicion. The brazen bull of Phalaris, excommunication by Alma 
Mater, or any other dire punishment, would be too good a fate for one who 
could dare to attempt caricature, or direct portraiture from real life, in a place 
like this. The present writer, at any rate, who retains notning but the most 
respectful regard for the gentlemen under whom his youthful days were passed 
in Cambridge, would prefer that these pages should remain forever unread, 
rather than that he should be accused of indulging in burlesque of their high 
offices, than which none can be higher. Why a semi-humorous name wu* 
bosen for the head of the university, and why Professor Darby, Di . 3rimble- 
».om, and others were drawn as they have been in the pages which follow, will 
be evident to any one who considers the needs of a book like this, and who wii' 


HAMMERSMITH : 


IQ 

and bowing in silence, like the dummy which he was called 
in nickname. 

Tom took the paper, and waited for the president to 
say something on his case. As he said nothing, except 
“ Mr. Hammersmith, ,, and continued to bow as before, 
and as another man was coming up for his papevs at the 
moment, Tom bowed in return, and went out by a side- 
door, rushing down the stone steps, with papers k. hand, 
but having not the least idea whether he had been admit- 
ted or ignominiously rejected. 

“How is it, Hammersmith? ” called Goldie and a 
dozen others, rushing at him. 

“ Haven’t the least idea. He never said a word,” an- 
swered Tom innocently ; but Goldie tore open his papers 
and shouted, — 

“Hurrah! Admitted without conditions! Congratu- 
late you, old boy! ” And he hugged him with the hug 
which Tom soon learned was the sign of exceeding great 
joy at the university, — the acme of congratulation. But 
Tom hardly stopped to receive the hands and the plaudits 
of his friends, nor to regard more than in passing several 
woful figures on the outside of the crowd, — Brand and 
Mountfort and Cleland and others, who had come up con- 
fidently to examination year after year, and were every 
time rejected by discriminating Alma Mater. 

He was rushing headlong to Professor Darby’s, to 
carry the good news to his uncle, when a voice at the 
college-gate arrested him: “Tom, Tom, where are you 
going? ” and he turned to find the anxious old “ Duke ” 
in a hack drawn up outside the college-gate, where he 
had driven to get tidings as soon as possible. “ Ali 
right, all right, uncle ! Admitted without conditions ! — 
H-i-g-h ! ” shouted Tom, and jumping into the hack, and 

he good enough to follow the course of Dummer and the rest as it coincides with 
Ihe path of Hammersmith, or runs counter to it, as the case may be. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


41 


ordering the driver to make haste to Professor Darby’s, he 
handed his uncle the papers, and sank on the seat, looking 
back at the buildings as they whirled away, with a sort of 
possessory interest vastly different from the feeling with 
which he had first approached them. 

How the old gentleman hugged him, and congratulated 
him, and looked fondly at the young fellow’s radiance ! 
And how the professor’s family repeated the operation, 
with modifications ! for, though we have not mentioned 
it, there were members of the professor’s household from 
whom to receive the uncle’s congratulations in exact kind 
would hardly have been proper. What a dinner they had 
that evening, with Goldie, Penhallow, Freemantle, and 
Arthur Tweedy, the last of whom had shown many polite 
attentions to Tom during his examinations (“ I’m a junior 
now, traditional friend of freshmen, you know,” he had 
remarked to the “ Duke,” who was thanking him for his 
kindness) , it does not concern us to describe. 

We may pass over, also, the proud young fellow’s tri- 
umphal reception at u Ivy Hill ; ” his fond mother’s tears, 
and Mabel’s and young Dick’s delight ; and how he strut- 
ted about the stables and dog-kennels ; patronized his 
mare and Trim, the lame setter ; looked deprecatingly at 
his lapstreak in the boathouse ; and altogether bore him- 
self as many a happy, high-spirited lad has carried himself 
before and since, and will carry himself, let us hope, to 
the end of time, so long as health and spirits and youthful 
pride shall be held the good things that they are. 

As his own thoughts and yearnings are carrying him 
now continually away from his quiet home to idealized 
Cambridge, and the stirring life awaiting him, we will fol- 
low their direction, and, passing over the few weeks spent 
at “ Ivy Hill,” — Tom’s restless impatience, the notes of 
preparation, the boxing of choice books and pictures and 
room-ornaments culled from the widow’s none too abun- 


42 


HAMMERSMITH : 


dant store, and the final blessings at parting, — meet him 
returned to the university, and preparing to find his niche 
in the little world of four-years’ whirling into which he had 
bee. 2 introduced. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


43 


CHAPTER IV. 

A SCRIMMAGE AND A SUDDEN ALLY. 

“ Unus homo nobis currendo restituit rem.” — Ennius. 

** Contending with twith and nail.” 

Niniani Winzet, Booke of four scoir thre question* 

I SAY, Goldie, are you going into the football match 
to-morrow? ” 

“ Of course I am ! So are you, or you’re not the fellow 
I take you for.” 

The first speaker, Hammersmith, who had come over 
from his quarters in Brattle House, was seated in the 
luxurious window-seat of Goldie’s Holworthy room, on 
the first Sunday of fall term. Goldie himself was lying 
prone on his sofa, with knees crossed high in air, blowing 
rings from his pipe towards the ceiling, and trying to prod 
them with his right foot as they rose. His chum, Pinck- 
ney, an open-hearted, somewhat combustible Southerner, 
was out visiting his new classmates, or promenading the 
town, or, perhaps, already running his neck into danger 
from tyrannical sophomores even thus early in his univer- 
sity life, — impetuous fellow as he was. 

It was a peaceful Sunday afternoon. A breeze was 
just rustling the drooping foliage of the elms, which were 
casting flickering shadows on the close-cut turf, where the 
merry al fresco dances of Class Day (not yet become 
obsolete or unpopular) had so recently been held, radiant 
with youths and maidens, 

“ Dancing ’neath the checkered shade.” 


44 


HAMMERSMITH : 


The chimes on Christ Church were ringing for afternoon 
service, and their pensive music floated harmoniously into 
the current of the young men’s thoughts and revery. 
How many a lad, fresh from a far home, his boyhood 
behind him, the big future looming before, has sat thus, 
and listened to the chimes which were sounding this after- 
noon for the new freslimen for the first time ! What are 
their thoughts ? Are they brave ? Are they despondent ? 
Do they think of the mothers and sisters that they have 
left behind? Do they long for fame, and a great name 
among men? Or are they content with the present,’ and 
resolved, for these happy four }’ears at least, to live and be 
merry, and let the future take care of itself, as the past 
has done? 

“ Why, all the fellows are going in,” continued Goldie. 
“ Freemantle says it’s often the making of a man’s uni- 
versity fame ; and he’s seen a good many games since 
he’s been at Dixwell’s.” 

“Freemantle! Can he kick? lie looks too delicate, 
and weak on his pins,” said Tom. 

“ Kick ! Why, my dear fellow, guess you haven’t seen 
the game, eh? or heard of it? Sec that picture? ” blow- 
ing a cloud of smoke towards a colored print next his 
bedroom-door, — “The Chicken” and “Yankee Boy” 
n attitude of defence. Tom nodded. “ Arc those birds 
tricking? Kicking has no more to do with this football 
game than with the sparring of those bullet-headed fellows 
yonder ! Do you box ? ’ ’ and Tom was about to answer, 
wondering what strange rules could govern the football 
games of the university, when Pinckney entered with a 
number of freshmen. They were introduced, shook hands 
warmly, and subsided into easy-chairs and window-seats. 

“Well, George, I’ve seen lots of the fellows this after- 
noon,” said Pinckney, — “ they’re coming over in crowds 
from Boston and Brookline and Roxbury ; lucky dogs tc 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


45 


be able to spend Sunday at home ! — and I think we shall 
make a pretty good stand to-morrow evening.” 

“ Are they all going in? ” asked Goldie, turning on his 
elbow towards the new-comers. 

The freshmen present made impressive vows of loyalty, 
such as “ You bet we are ! ” “ Well, I rather think so ! ” 
and so on ; and Pinckney continued, — 

“ Yes, haven’t seen a fellow that was chicken-hearted ; 
and a mighty good-sized lot they are ! Oh, yes ! there's 
one chap — What’s his name? — He rooms in your 
entry, Brinton, right across from you.” 

“A — Breese, you mean? ” 

u Yes, Breese. Rural chap, I should say ; strong smell 
of turnips in the room. A tall, raw-boned fellow, with a 
fist like a bargeman’s. Jove, I thought he’d break every 
bone in my fingers when I shook his ugly flipper just 
now ! ” And Pinckney looked at his own white tapering 
hands sjunpathetically, and, passing them through his black 
forelock, added, “ Guess he’s one of your strait-laced 
coves, — Sunday school, and that sort of thing. He said 
he had heard that it wasn’t a square game, but a fight ; 
and he should decline to join — on principle. Hang his 
principles ! What we want is muscle. He’d make a 
rattler for a rush ! ” 

“Can’t we secure him? ” asked Goldie, with the air of 
a general about to lose a valuable adjutant. 

“ ’Fraid not ; firm as a rock, I imagine, when he’s made 
up his mind. They say he walked all the way from Ohio 
here. Pity to waste such leg-muscle, eh?” 

“ I know a fellow that knows him,” interposed a small 
man, perhaps not sorry that such a muscleman should 
be on hand as a possible buckler for himself in the con- 
test. “ I’ll ask him to speak to him.” 

“Of course you’re going in,” said Pinckney, turning 
co Hammersmith. 


46 


HAMMERSMITH: 


“ When you’re in Rome, and so forth,” said Tom 
u I’ve never seen the game, and I don’t box ; but 1 think 
I can do some pretty tall knocking about.” And the 
men present looked admiringly, and at the same time 
pityingly, at him. 

Provident fellows ! Every one of them had been postur- 
ing, and hitting from the shoulder, and learning the rudi- 
ments of the manly art, for months now, from various 
square- visaged gentry in different places, but mostly from 
“The Chicken,” — a notorious Boston light-weight, at 
present a great favorite with university men. In fact, 
Henchman and some of the fast set had been in the habit 
of inviting him to Cambridge to little suppers and wines, 
at which his cropped head and flattened nose made a 
startling contrast to the modish young students ; and 
his quick sparring and nimble “ fives,” when the tables 
were moved and the gloves put on, were rather too much 
for the amateurs who stood up against him. 

This practice had come to a sudden end, however, aftei 
a peculiarly uproarious supper at Porter’s, — a neighbor- 
ing tavern, — whence, after a night of carousal and con- 
siderable fist-practice, the company, none too steady in 
the night-air, descended upon Cambridge, pounded suc- 
cessive remonstrant watchmen in turn, and at last, after 
a desperate struggle with the united police-force, left 
“ The Chicken,” weary with much fighting, but still game, 
safely jugged, with several of their number, in the town 
jail. Three of them were suspended next day ; and u The 
Chicken ” was a hero in college-circles from that day on. 
Though shy of Cambridge suppers, proctors, and police, 
he remained the pet of the fast and the muscular sets, 
and received full pay from his pupils for the sudden 
stars that he showed them at his dingy little office adjoin- 
ing Milo’s gymnasium in Boston, — an office stale with 
bad tobacco, and hung with flaring pictures of the P. R., 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


47 


— grandiose bullies with bulging biceps, standing ever 
ready to strike, but never striking. 

As all proscribed men, like forbidden fruit, have a pecu- 
liar piquancy, “The Chicken” found himself surfeited 
with popularity ; and not only undergraduates, but men 
from the schools, and young lads not coming up for years, 
buttoned on his gloves, and stood up in his little office to 
be pounded, and have their eyes opened and shut to the 
beauties of the manly art. 

So Tom sat now and listened to the talk of “ The Chick- 
en’s ” pupils, their descriptions of other games, their sev- 
eral plans and devices for this one in particular ; and, 
before he left, he had received a fair though quite new 
idea of the nature of this first inter-class contest. 

Freemantle came in from his room at Morgan’s, — a 
fast man of the better sort, if such an expression may be 
used, — rich, handsome, thin, but wiry and muscular, a 
capital boxer, runner, and fencer, but hardly up to the 
more sturdy sports. He was received with the homage 
which is generally paid such men by young hero-worship- 
pers ; and sitting down, half on the sofa, half on Goldie’s 
feet, he entered at once into their conversation. 

He had not said five words before Tom recognized his 
mistake in thinking him ignorant or incapable of the 
game ; and the skilful way in which he turned their ram- 
bling talk into a business-like discussion of ways and 
means of organizing their men, and working together for 
victory, showed the younger fellows that here was a man 
to whom they might look as a leader, and one likely to 
deserve well of his party. 

More men, freshly arriving, topped in. The strength 
and abilities of most of the prominent members of the 
class were already pretty thorougnly canvassed ; and, 
when the bell for afternoon chapel rang, the make-up of 
their party for the great football match was as complete 


48 


HAMMEKSMITH : 


as could be expected from the raw recruits under their 
command. 

Freemantle and Hammersmith went off arm in arm to 
chapel, which was not yet become the importunate temple 
of worship that four years’ compulsory attendance on 
prayers and services contrive to render it in the minds of 
most undergraduates. And as the reverend preacher rose 
in his place, and began to read, “ I have fought a good 
fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith,’* 
more men than Hammersmith and Freemantle smiled, and 
looked mischief at each other, and wondered if that grave 
face and devout manner could shelter a double entendre . 

There was a new choir that day, and several dainty 
bonnets in the pews, to which Freemantle had called atten- 
tion when they entered ; so that between all these, and 
the crowding memories of home, which the place, and the 
hour, and the parental associations with the preacher’s 
office, called up, I doubt if Mr. Tom could have given so 
fair a synopsis of the sermon as he had been used to giv- 
ing of his dear father’s at home, just before the lamps 
were brought in, as they sat together in the dusk. His 
mind was busy with all the teeming thoughts natural to 
his new departure in life, and especially with the anticipa- 
tion of the great struggle which he had just heard dis- 
cussed, and which was so soon to come off. 


When Miss Darby, and her cousins the Barlows, from 
Jamaica Plain, drove up in their carriage to the Delta, the 
following evening, about an hour before sunset, the}’ 
found that ancient playground — scene of so many sports 
and struggles — surrounded on every hand with several 
rows of carriages and horsemen and pedestrians, gath- 
ered to witness the struggle and scrimmage which wenf 
under the name of the football match. 

Cambridge and the neighboring towns and country were 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


49 


out in full force to see a brother, or a cousin, or a son, 
rush into somebody’s else brother, or cousin, or son, or 
fall over me ball now and then, or stand up to be knocked 
down, or perform other brave deeds, for the honor of his 
class. Small boys, grinning with foreknowledge of the 
sport, were perched on the posts, or maintained a dubious 
equilibrium on the upturned angle of the fence-rails. 
Tutors and proctors, and here and there an old professor 
with a young heart, mingled in the crowd, and prepared to 
watch the questionable sport, — a sport which was not 
forbidden by the faculty, to be sure, but regarded rather 
as the inevitable though degenerate relic of ancient usage, 
and a not undesirable safety-valve for the semi-hostile 
feelings of sophomores and freshmen, better worked off 
in these earlier and less occupied days of the term than 
later. 

“Why, Ellen, are we late? Oh, dear! we shall have 
no view at all. What a crowd there is ! ” said Miss Bar- 
low, addressing her cousin Miss Darby ; and the j^oung 
ladies stood up a moment in the open carriage to have a 
better view. 

“Sit down, won’t you!” said the peremptory Ned. 
“ Game hasn’t begun. What do you want to stand up 
for? Girls are always so curious ! ” and the young ladies 
subsided. 

At this juncture the dowager Mrs. Malachite, whose 
old -fashioned barouche was just inside the Barlows’, next 
the fence, spoke sharply to her coachman ; and the ancient 
vehicle, with much cramping, and backing, and disturb- 
ance of neighbors, lumbered out, and rolled towards Bos- 
ton. The patient dowager had waited an hour now to see 
her darling Sam march out to do battle with the freshmen, 
and she was due at the Minturns’, Beacon Street, at eight 
o’clock, for a quiet rubber of whist, — the Minturns hav- 
ing returned early from Nahant, on account of the raw 


50 


HAMMERSMITH .* 


weather which had set in prematurely on the seashore ; 
and, 4 4 if there was any thing in all the world ” that Mrs. 
Minturn and the dear girls 44 hated,” it was 44 those awful 
east winds,” which went through their poor pampered 
bodies like knife-blades. 

So old Mrs. Malachite bowled off to her whist and her 
dish of tea with the dear Minturns (Mr. Minturn and the 
late Malachite had been partners in the East-India trade ; 
and they do say, that, if Malachite had not been so ex- 
peditious in marrying Mrs. Malachite out of hand, Mr. 
Minturn — but that is mere gossip, and does not concern 
us), — Mrs. Malachite, I say, was trundled away to her 
rubber of whist ; and the Barlows’ carriage slid quietly up 
into the vacant place. 

They were so near now, that they could see the fresh- 
men lying in groups under the trees towards the apex of 
the Delta. Several of their leaders were moving among 
them, apparently giving advice. If the young ladies had 
been still nearer, they would have seen several small 
freshmen sheepishly extracting cotton-wool and old hand- 
kerchiefs, and other such padding, from their boot-legs, 
and might have heard them chaffing each other on their 
ignorance of the game and the precise point of attack. 
But they were not near enough for that, or to see the 
blanched lips of many of the young fellows, for the first 
time in their lives brought into such an arena, and feeling 
that the coming struggle was big with Fate for them. 

They could only pity the raw young fellows in a gen- 
eral way, and look about them at the faces that they 
knew, in carriages and elsewhere. 

44 Why, there’s Miss Fayerweather ! I thought she 
was in Newport,” said Miss Barlow. 44 Who’s that on 
hor«eback talking to her? ” 

“ One of the Abbotts, I think,” said her sister Madelon. 
44 But, Ellen, as sure as you live, isn’t that your fathej 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


51 


•eaning against the post? In a line with that hoi rid red 
Bhawl — don’t you see? ” 

“Red shawl? It certainly is. I thought he had some 
Latin papers to look over. But what’s that noise?” 
asked Miss Darby. 

“ There they come ! ” shouted young Barlow, forgetting 
his awful self in the excitement. “Aren’t they a jolly 
set of coves? ” 

As he speaks, a long procession comes in view. Can 
they be students, these tatterdemalions in old coats and 
older hats, in winged raggedness both, marching two by 
two past Holworthy, and singing at the top of their voices 
some popular college-song, — “We won’t go home till 
morning,” I think it was ! They file out of the quadran- 
gle, cross the street, and, entering the enclosure by an old 
gate long since vanished, take up their places by the 
two spreading trees which formerly stood guard near 
the broad end of the Delta. 

It is all changed now : the noble Memorial Hall has 
been flung down into the middle of the Delta ; and the 
noise of knives and forks in commons, the rounded 
periods of orators, and the festive music of commence- 
ments, have chased away the echoes of the games and 
contests of Hammersmith’s day. Whether these two 
trees, the rendezvous in so many different sports of the 
early times, have given way before the eastern facade of 
Memorial Hall, I know not, in my exile ; but they spread 
a welcome shade for the young cricketers and athletes of 
the days of which I write. And under them now our 
sophomores have collected, depositing their coats at their 
bases, and looking across at the band of freshmen. 

The latter have risen, and are bunched near the middle 
of the Delta. 

“ Do you know many of the men?” said Miss Made- 
Ion, addressing Miss Darby. “ What frights those sophs 
we ! ” 


f>2 


HAMMEESMITH : 


“ Only my cousin George Goldie, a classmate of his 
:iamed Hammersmith, and one or two others. ,, 

“Hammersmith! One of the Hammersmiths? Is he 
nice? ” 

“ M — m — I hardly — There he is now, looking this 
way ; ” and, as Mr. Tom raised his cap to her, she said, 
“How do you do, Mr. Hammersmith? ” in that bated 
whisper with which one addresses people rods away, feel- 
ing inexpressibly silly for it afterwards. 

“Yes; and there’s George going over towards the 
sophomores ; and that big fellow has the ball. They’re 
going to begin,” she added. 

Miles advances with the ball, Goldie meeting him half 
Fay. 

“Heads, or tails?” says Miles, holding a coin in his 
hand. 

“I’ll wait till you flip it up. Heads! ” says Goldie, 
as the coin is in air. 

“ Heads it is,” answers Miles, picking up the piece, and 
delivering the ball to Goldie, who returns to his part} r , 
now considerably elated at their winning the toss and the 
send-off. 

Goldie calls about him the Pretorian Band, made up 
of the largest freshmen and the boxers. 

“ Now, fellows, keep close together. Don’t strike a 
man, unless necessary (keep all your strength for rushing 
the ball through) ; but, if 3 -ou’re struck, give as good as 
you receive. — And you fellows,” addressing the crowd 
in the rear, “ don’t get excited ! Trip up any fellow rush- 
ing towards goal with the ball ; and, if we here are making 
headway, press in after us hot and heavy. But leave a 
dozen men always in the rear. — Hammersmith, keep close 
to us, but don’t get into a fight if you can help it.” And 
turning to the sophomores, he cries out, — 

“ Warners ! ” 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


53 


“ Take ’em ! ” returns Miles ; and Goldie gives a rapid 
run for the ball, lying fifty feet ahead of him on the ground, 
His band following by his side. He makes a magnificent 
drive ; and the ball rises over the heads of the advanced 
sophomores, falling in the midst of the crowd behind. 
Goldie and his men forge ahead, and, before a return-kick 
can be given, are well among the sophomores, keeping a 
sharp lookout on every side. 

The ball comes bounding toward them. Pinckney 
jumps high for it, catches it, and starts to run toward the 
enemy’s goal. A dozen blows are aimed at him, several 
of them telling severely ; but he holds on to the ball, Miles 
and other sophomores closing round him. The pupils of 
“ The Chicken ” are working bravely now : but they are 
on both sides ; and the question is the old Waterloo prob- 
lem, which can * ‘ pound the longer, gentlemen. ’ ’ Pinckney 
catches a stinging blow under his left ear, and turns invol- 
untarily to see his assailant. A small sophomore immedi- 
ately trips him, seizes the ball, and darts obliquely for the 
front. 

“After him!” shouts Goldie; and as many as can 
evade the press start in pursuit. Tom happens to be in 
his path, and throws himself wildly on the runner. They 
both fall heavily, in a cloud of dust ; but the little man 
rights himself, and tosses the ball to his friends. 

Several of the freshmen are limping and bloody by this 
time. Tom has lost half a coat-lapel; Pinckney’s left 
hand is disabled ; Freemantle keeps one eye knowingly 
closed ; Goldie and the rest of the chiefs are panting hard 
with the exertion, but rallying boldly after the ball as it 
goes here and there. 

It is hopeless to expect the rabble of inexperienced lads 
to stand against the organized sophomores, who have been 
through the mill before, know each other’s strong and 
weak points, and are to-day “regulars” fighting against 
“ raw recruits.” 


54 


HAMMERSMITH: 


The freshmen hold out pluckily, however. Stand after 
stand is made ; roosting urchins on the fence cry out, 
“Well done, Freshy ! ” and bright eyes flash with admira- 
tion, or melt in pity, as Tom’s classmates make a good 
sally, or some unhappy fellow finds himself ploughing 
through the ground on his nose. 

Tom has a bout with the small sophomore again on the 
edge of the game, and discovers him to be the same little 
wretch that had insulted him at Parker’s, when a sub- 
freshman. But they are both novices at pounding ; and 
after a good deal of squaring about, and truculent regard- 
ing of each other, they are not sorry to see the crowd 
swaying in their direction, and sweeping over their battle- 
field. 

So the ball and the surging crowds go back and forth ; 
men are rolled over, and come up the color of mother- 
earth ; and players on both sides, who have won their 
local glory at Exeter or Dixwell’s, or the other schools, 
perform prodigies of valor, striving for still wider fame. 
But slowty and surely the freshmen are driven back 
towards their goal, contesting every foot. A rush by 
Miles and his crew, a lively scrimmage under the trees 
by Professor’s Row, and the ball is sent flying over the 
freshmen’s goal, while Miles shouts, “ Game ! ” 

There are cheers and shouts from the spectators, and 
many cries of admiration for the freshmen’s pluck, — 
“ Bravo, freshmen ! better luck next time ! ” “ Oh, well 

led, Goldie ! ” and so on. The parties change sides, 
resting a while under the trees at either end. The sopho- 
mores scatter more or less, some of them going out to 
cnat with their friends in the carriages, their chests still 
leaving a little, but conscious, let us suspect, that their 
muscles, and their torn clothing, and the “drops of 
onset,” lend a peculiar interest in certain eyes. 

“ How could you trip up that poor little freshman, 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


55 


though ?” says Miss Fayerweather, beaming from her 
carriage upon Appleton, one of the waist oars of the 
sophomore crew. And Appleton shoots a return-beam, 
and begins something about “ Wliat’s a freshman? ” when 
Miles calls, “ Warners ! ” again ; and he lifts his hat, and 
runs off. 

Goldie had spoken a few words to his fellows as they 
lay under the two trees before mentioned, had compli- 
mented them on their pluck, and made some changes in 
organization. 

“We are not strong enough in front. Don’t you see, 
we want more driving force? Penhallow, Hammersmith, 
and some of you fellows, keep closer with us, and go in 
for the rushes. If I shout ‘ Go it ! ’ let every man lay to, 
and do the best boxing that he’s capable of. We shall 
have the wind this time, and we’ll give ’em a closer rub, 
or my name’s not Goldie. What do you say?” And 
they wagged their heads, and tightened belts, making up 
their minds to do or die this very afternoon. 

Miles kicks ; and the ball goes skimming over the heads 
of the freshmen, even farther than at the first kick-off. 
The very rear-guard — made up of the laggards, the timid, 
and the delicate — pick it up, and rush it forward to the 
van, who have turned to meet it. But the sophomores 
are upon them, charging with the idea of making short 
work of this inning, and overturning freshmen right and 
left as they plunge in. Goldie looks serious. He sees 
that they are to have rough work, if they would win. 
He shouts, “ Go it!” to his band; and at the signal 
they square off, and begin to use their fists in earnest, 
each selecting a foeman worthy of his steel. 

Yes, madam, they begin using their fists, — experto crede , 
—-on your darling of a Sam, mv dear Mrs. Malachite, and 
cu other devoted offspring by his side. I can only hope 
chat your Sammy was in the front rank, taking his pound- 


56 


HAMMERSMITH : 


ing like a man. It would be somewhat of a consolation foi 
this chronicler of a bygone savage custom to know, that, 
if the custom must be sustained, every man was on hand, 
and doing his share of the hard work. This is a chroni- 
cle, and not a sermon ; and if your Sam came home with 
a very ensanguined eye that week, my dear madam, and 
if Hammersmith was its colorist, you must blame neither 
me nor Hammersmith. I am but the biographer of a 
brief period of his life : he is merely a follower of your 
own cherub in his adherence to a time-honored institu- 
tion, — “ time-hon’rd inchtooshon, very long time-hon’red 
inchtooshon,” as your son and heir proclaimed it this 
very evening after the game at a festive little meeting in 
McGregor’s rooms. 

The game goes whirling on. The ball is almost lost 
sight of for a while, as the leaders of both parties are 
engaged in single combat, and the rest await the issue. 

Tom had met more than his match this time. When 
Goldie’s signal came, he found himself near the fence, 
towards the quadrangle ; and, turning to select his man, 
he ran plump into McGregor, a smallish but long-armed 
boating-man, who immediately made for him, and put 
him on his defence. Poor Tom put in practice the few 
hints on counter and defence that Goldie had given him ; 
out the science and long arms of the boating-man were 
too much for him. He received a shivering blow under 
the chin, staggered a moment, but came up with a good 
defence and clinched teeth. An old gentleman on the 
sidewalk leaned over the fence, and shook his cane dep- 
recatingly, “ Why, young men, you’re fighting, you’re 
fighting ! ” and young ladies looking on held their breath 
to see the way that Tom stood up under the blows, which 
were coming faster and more effectively as he began to 
lose his head more and more. He remembered afterward 
hearing the old gentleman’s call, and vowing that he’d 
die game for the old man’s edification, at any rate. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


57 


McGregor was not to be stopped longer by tliis stub- 
born freshman, however, and made a furious rush at him. 
Tom caught the blow on his right eye, and fell backward 
heavily just a second too soon ; for Goldie, who had had 
a drawn battle with Miles not far away, spying Tom’s 
plight, dashed towards him, and sent McGregor reeling 
in the opposite direction. The crowd now came tearing 
this way with the ball, and, before Tom and McGregor 
could rise, had rushed completely over them, leaving 
freshmen and sophomores piled about them and above 
them. 

“All right ?” asked Goldie, as he pulled Tom from 
under a wreck of freshmen. 

“ Y-e-s, I think so,” said Tom, trying his jaw, and 
blinking with one eye, while he grinned through a dusty 
stratum. 

“ Follow me, then,” returned Goldie, plunging like an 
old war-horse into the thickest of the fight ; and, followed 
by Tom, he made his way as best he could towards the 
baU. 

Heavens ! Miles has it ! He has passed the van of the 
freshmen, and is making with long strides for their goal. 
Will nobody stop him ? But what is this ? 

From the freshmen’s very rear a tall figure, in long, 
flapping coat, suddenly darts towards the rushing Miles 
as he is preparing to kick the ball over the goal. He falls 
upon the very kick, as it were, plucks the ball from him, 
and dashes forward, Miles striking at him in vain. He 
dodges men and blows alike ; his men gather in his wake, 
but he presses on ahead of them all. 

“Who is he?” “Is he a freshman?” “He’s the 
devil ! ” 

“ By Jove, it’s Breese, ’ gasps Pinckney, — “ the fellow 
that nearly broke my fist. Follow him — hurrah ! ” And 
the gallant Pinckney, almost gone with fatigue from his 


58 


HAMMERSMITH : 


rapid work, — for he has been everywhere, — makes after 
him with the rest of the freshmen. 

And Breese strides and rolls on through the crowd, as 
though he were himself india-rubber. Men dart out, and 
deal him blows ; but he brushes them off with his long, 
sinewy arms. They trip him up ; but he rolls over and 
over, and comes up hugging the ball as if it were a pet 
“ principle,” or he a kangaroo in flight. The fleetest 
runners make after him ; but he only shows them his long 
coat-tails floating horizontally on the breeze. 

“ He’s down ! ” 

He surely is; and a mass of struggling men — Miles, 
Appleton, McGregor, Goldie, and many others — are 
fighting and falling about him. Nobody can see for the 
dust, and the crowd outside the Delta is filled with excite- 
ment ; for it is the turning-point of the game, as every- 
body can see, and the apparition of the long-skirted one 
is a novelty in the learned neighborhood. 

Nobody can see and nobody can tell who will emerge 
with the ball ; but as the struggling and pushing go on, 
and a dozen men are rolling in the dust about Breese, he 
suddenly extracts himself from the mass, holding the ball, 
and rushes, with a solitary coat-tail now following him 
like an exclamation-point, for the sophomore goal. A 
few men are standing guard, expecting a rush ; but, just 
before reaching them, he takes a drop-kick, and sends the 
ball flying far up into the apex of the Delta. 

The freshmen cry, “Game, game!” and run up to 
congratulate Breese, who does not wait for them ; but, 
vaulting the fence in an easy manner, makes his way 
through the carriages, and quietly walks towards the 
halls. 

“Breese, Breese, come back!” his classmates shout; 
and Goldie, Pinckney, and others rush after him. 

“For Heaven’s sake, come back, man! Where are 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


59 


you going: You’ve saved our side, my dear fellow. 
Aren’t you well? ” asked Goldie. 

“ Perfectly so. I’ve had enough, that’s all.” And nc 
amount of beseeching and complimenting could bring him 
back. He went off slowly to his rooms, as though return 
ing from an afternoon constitutional: and the freshmen 
felt much like the Romans after the battle of the Lake 
Regillus and the disappearance of the two horsemen ; or 
as the people of Hadley after the Indian fight, and their 
deliverance by the mysterious old man in white hair, sup- 
posed to be a regicide, who fought, and saved them, and 
vanished into the night. 

The evening light is going fast, however ; and Goldie 
is calling “Warners ! ” again ; for the rubber comes now ; 
and the freshmen will have ample time after this to discuss 
their curious victory. 

We need hardly follow them through this last struggle. 
The game wavered and varied much as before, except that 
the freshmen had not the endurance of their opponents, 
and worked with less vim now. The encouragement of 
their victory 7 , however, was almost a counterpoise for their 
fatigue ; and they girded themselves for their work with 
grim determination. 

Only those who have struggled in an up-hill, stubborn 
game like this for hours, who have felt that they had a 
furnace for lungs, and a scorching lime-kiln for a throat, 
but who have yet put all their remaining strength into 
the last desperate charges, can appreciate the condition 
n which both sides, and more especially the freshman, 
are playing this decisive rubber. It is a terrible strain on 
the heart and the lungs, and a test of the stoutest pluck. 

Only one episode marks the grim monotony of the game 
now, which is played in almost complete silence. 

The ball flies over the fence, and falls in the street, 
tmong a number of carnages drawn up near the Delta. 


60 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Horses snort and prance ; and a half-dozen men of both 
sides, who have gone over the fence like deer, dash in 
among them. McGregor has the ball ; but a pair of high- 
stepping grays, from under whose feet he had pulled it, 
plunge and rear ; and there is a cry of horror, as Pinck- 
ney, tr}dng to avoid them, is knocked over, and lies 
motionless under the forward-wheels of the carriage. 
There is a rush for him ; and while men of both sides 
swarm over the fence, and many too inquisitive strangers 
press around him, Goldie, the glorious, comes vaulting 
over the rails, and diving through the crowd. 

“For God’s sake, give him air, gentlemen ! ” he shouts, 
as he pushes them away, and lifts the flaccid form of his 
chum. “ Pinck, Pinck ! are you hurt? Where is it? — 
Some water, quick, some of you ! ” And somebody runs 
for the quadrangle. 

Pinckney opens his eyes at length, draws a long breath, 
with wide-opened mouth, and puts his hand to his side. 
It was a cruel kick in the side, which had knocked the 
breath out of him for the moment, but has worked no 
permanent injury. 

“ Shall we stop the game? ” asked Miles. 

“ No, no ! — You can go on, can’t you, Pinck? ” said 
Goldie. 

“I think so,” answered Pinckney; and, straightening 
himself with an effort, he climbed the fence, and took his 
position ; while the united classes and the crowds about 
the Delta joined in a mighty shout, and clapping of hands. 

“ Take your kick,” called Goldie ; and the sophomore 
kicked off. Pinckney started, as of old, in the direction 
of the ball, but doubled over as a sharp stitch in his 
muscles caught him. He walked to the side of the Delta, 
leaned wearily against a stone post, and saw, with a 
bitter, sickly feeling, in less than five minutes, the victo* 
rious sophomores driving the ball over the freshman goal 


HIS HAH YARD DAYS. 


61 


Victory had settled with the sophomores, to hi, sure. 
But as the conquerors and their not unworthy opponents 
mingled, and walked towards the quadrangle, and the 
mass of spectators broke up and melted away, if you had 
been among them, you would have heard them declaring 
that such a well-fought game had never been, in the 
memory of the oldest graduate. Miles and Goldie, leaders 
and followers, were complimented on their brilliant play ; 
and Tom felt that his cup was full when McGregor, who 
had knocked him down, caught him up as they were near- 
ing the halls, and extended his hand frankly, saying, — 

“ How’s the eye, Hammersmith? You’re the toughest 
customer, for a novice, that I ever got hold of.” And 
Tom opened a rather unhappy eye for proof, and became a 
fast friend of his generous antagonist, from that day on. 

So the first rough initiation into his university life had 
come and gone ; and Tom (who could call this his first 
initiation without tautology, for he was to have many 
more), in spite of pounding and bruises, weeping eye, and 
somewhat of disgust at the rather barbarous pastime, was 
glad that he had been through it, and felt more of a man 
than ever in his life before, as he walked to his room in 
the midst of these fellows, who could give and take such 
severe punishment without wincing. 

Philosophers, and you, gentle readers, may smile ; but 
such was the fact. I find in Tom’s diary, under date of 
Monday, Sept. 19, 185-, the following entry: — 

“ Weather fine all day. Recitations not yet under way, except 
in Latin. Darby is a brick. Took little lesson in boxing in 
Goldie’s room. Football match in evening; great crowd. Bowed 
to Miss Darby; bad pretty girls with her. We won only one in- 
nings, — the second. Breese, queer fellow ; ran clear tbiougb with 
ball. Fight with McGregor; knocked down; bad eye. Pinckney 
;dcked by horse. ‘ Bloody Monday ’ night; lots of hazing. [Hera 
occurs a star, referring to a blank page at the end of bis book, 
where be went for space to describe the hazing of that evening. 


62 


HAMMERSMITH : 


We need not follow him now.] Feel more of a man to-night than 
ever in my life. Began a letter home.” 


Of all the ring of spectators that day, who cheered and 
shouted, held their breath, and laughed at the horizontal 
coat-tail, there was no one who followed the game in gen- 
eral, and Mr. Tom in particular, with more interest than 
our friend the “ Duke,” sitting in a drag with his old 
classmate Shaw, who was just home from a two-years* 
absence, hunting in South Africa. 

He had settled himself in his club — dreary and de- 
serted enough at this time of year — for an afternoon of 
letter- writing, where Shaw had caught him, and whence 
he had whisked him out to Cambridge to renew his youth 
(if the young old boy could be said to need such a reno- 
vation) by a look at the match. They were late, and 
drew up near the corner of Quincy and Cambridge Streets, 
just in time to see Tom squaring off in his fatal bout with 
McGregor. 

u Good gad! there’s my youngster at it, like a pile- 
driver ! Whew ! he’s down ! Can’t you drive a little 
nearer, Shaw?” And the anxious uncle stood up in his 
place, and almost lost his balance, as the tandem wound 
about to a nearer point of view. “Ah! he’s up again, 
grinning like a Cheshire cat. There he goes ! ” And he 
rattled on thus about his beloved charge, while Shaw kept 
his restless horses in control. 

He had followed the fluctuating game with the most 
absorbed interest, giving a long, old-fashioned cheer when 
the freshmen had won, and following Tom with his eyes 
everywhere. He saw Tom rendering a good account of 
himself in the rushes and struggles and set-tos : and he 
smiled as he thought that he was bringing no disgrace 
on the stout old Hammersmith name by skulking, or 
hanging back, or avoiding his share of the fight. He had 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


63 


laughed till the scar on his forehead grew red as fire, 
when he saw the widowed coat-skirt of Breese floating 
behind him in his flight. He had stood up again with 
many “ Good gad, sirs!’ ’ when Pinckney was knocked 
over, and the crowd had gathered about him. 

But when the game was over, and the men were scat- 
tering, he had lost sight of Tom, and, not finding him at 
his rooms, had driven back to a late dinner with Shaw ; 
after which, they dressed, and dropped in, at the end of 
the evening, at Mrs. Minturn’s, disturbing Mrs. Mala- 
chite’s quiet tete-a-tete with the host, by delivering to that 
indefatigable whist-player and indulgent mother the news 
of her Sam’s victory at Cambridge. History does not 
relate what especial prowess the descendant of a hundred 
Malachites displayed that day. I fear me, however, that 
he was dancing wildly in the rear of his party, and shout- 
ing, “ At ’em ! At ’em ! ” But he was small. 


64 


HAMMERSMITH * 


CHAPTER V. 

WHICH DISCLOSES A MODERN FORUM. 

“ Sapientiam sibi adimunt qui sine ullo judicio inventa majorum probant el 
ab allis pecudum more ducuntur.” — Lactantius. 

“ Tonto, ein saber Latin, nunca es gran tonto.” — Spanish Proverb. 

H OW simple and artless seem those early weeks of 
freshman life in retrospect ! and yet how grand 
and world-shaking they were in the minds of the young 
neophytes ! I doubt if any of the chiefs whom we follow 
in later life, in church, or state, or social ways (if so be 
we follow any) , have the satisfying proportions of those 
earlier captains of our class-room, our sports, and our 
social world, — so roseate is the imagination, so facile the 
admiration, of youth ! How we looked up to the tremen- 
dous senior walking slowly in deep thought, like the 
ancient Greek, whose learned men, according to Winckel- 
mann, were always slow of gait ! How the insouciance 
and easy manners of the middle classes, freed from hobble- 
dehoyhood, but not yet feeling the weight of ultimate dig- 
nity, filled us with wonder and admiration ! — would we 
ever leave our simple ways behind us, and make so daz- 
zling a picture to others? And the heroes around whom 
we began to cluster in our own class, were there ever 
greater? — Brown, who had carried off the honors at Exe- 
ter, and was making faultless recitations, passing perfect 
examinations in the larger fields of Cambridge letters ; 
Jones the athlete, who could whirl the hundred-pound 
clubs as easily as you or I the fifty, and had been known 


HIS HARVARD DA¥S. 


65 


to pull himself up with one hand in the rings three times 
running, — the summa cum laude of biceps exercise ; Rob- 
inson, champion-walker of the class, who had dene the 
distance from the Revere House to Harvard Square in 
thirty-six minutes by a stop-watch, — good square heel- 
and-toe walking ; and all the other head men, whose brain, 
muscle, or personal magnetism were carrying them to the 
front, and enrolling an army of worshippers behind. Ah, 
how many of them have exchanged sceptres since then ! 

Our modest Tom, even, had had a brief lease of immor- 
tality, and been revered for a season as the coming Greek 
scholar of his class. His “ fit ” in that “ ancient mummy- 
bandage ” had been quite perfect, thanks to Mr. Andrew 
Pipon. He had passed a very fair examination in it at 
entrance ; and when, some three weeks after the beginning 
of fall term, it was learned that he had received maximum 
in his first Greek examination, his fame was immediate 
and vast. Less successful men pointed him out to each 
other as he walked past their rooms, and wished that they 
had that fellow’s brain ; (the young cannibals !) the most 
scholarly men of the class received him among them, think- 
ing that they had at least secured a Macaenas, if not an 
eminent genius ; the Greek professor, even, so it was 
rumored, had called Tom up, and congratulated him on his 
success, hoping to hear the “ same good report” of him t 
always ; while Mr. Tom carried his chin a little higher, to 
be sure, but otherwise behaved as though it were a matter 
of course, the most natural thing in the world, — Greek 
examinations, what were they ! He would stroll in and do 
his paper as easily as he would write a letter home, — and 
so out again, perennial victor ! 

The instructors under whom Mr. Tom was placed in 
this first year of his college-career, as they made more 
impression on his tender life than those of later yeavs. 
ileniand a few words. 


66 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Chief among them, in Tom’s mind, was the Professor 
Darby at whom we have hastily glanced once or twice 
already. As we shall meet him many times again, please 
God, we need add little to his sketchy outline in this 
place, except to say that he was a man in the prime of 
life, a scholar by instinct and inheritance, and filled with 
a hearty zest and enthusiasm, which especially endeared 
him to his young pupils. They sat through his longest 
lectures on Roman literature, and his most tortuous me- 
diaeval genealogies, because he made every fact a breath- 
ing reality to them. And had they not seen him this 
very afternoon watching their cricket-game from over the 
fence, smoking his cigar in contemplative after-dinner 
content? Hadn’t he complimented Clifford on his bril- 
liant bowling, when he passed by the profe-ior in pursuit 
of the ball? — “ Beautifully bowled, Mr. Clifford ! Pretty 
little corner of the game you make ; you as bowler, and 
Thorpe at mid- wicket.” And weren’t they aware that he 
was present at ever} 7- regatta and match, if possible, with 
his wife and daughter, Miss Ellen, applauding with the 
most enthusiastic ! Ah ! and how they wished they had 
him for president, in place of “ old Dummer,” iEgidius 
Dummer, faugh ! In fact, he was the most popular, 
because the most natural and hearty, of the professors of 
*Tom’s day; and “the fellows” would as soon have 
thought of blowing up their grandmothers as of making a 
disturbance in his class-room. The “ Old Darby ” which 
they called him was a sign of the most devoted affection, 
far different from the feeling covered by “ Old Dummer,” 
or “ Old Wizzen,” or “ Old Bone.” Easy popularity, if 
all instructors were only gentlemen, and could treat their 
charges as though they were flesh and blood, and not 
anatomist’s specimens. 

Tutor Bone, — Philander Bone, — head scholar of his 
class, now several years graduated, at present instructor 


HIS HARVABD DAYS. 


67 


in physics, and lecturer on chemical analysis, was at the 
antipodes from Professor Darby in point of personal 
popularity. If he had applied at the State Department 
for a passport to foreign parts, — a thing which his ardent 
patriotism, and his hatred of the “ effete civilizations of 
Europe,” would never allow, — his description therein 
would have read somewhat as follows : “ Philander Bone, 
tutor of youth, age twenty-seven, height five feet ten 
inches, weight one hundred and thirty- two pounds, eyes 
blue, hair yellow, figure very spare, no visible hair on the 
face, uses glasses, has a slight lisp.” His head was 
enormously developed, his ears standing almost at right 
angles with it ; and when he donned his soft black hat, of 
a style that he always affected, with all this expansive 
head-gear he gave one the impression of a porter approach- 
ing, with a mass of baggage on his shoulders. He was a 
most exemplary man, I doubt not, but quite out of h:s 
place as a “ tutor of jx>uth.” He was like Thoreau’s 
heavy-topped men, of ideas instead of legs, — a sort of 
intellectual centipede, that made you crawl all over. 
Certain am I, that, if Sydney Smith had met him in the 
streets of Cambridge, he would have buttonholed him, 
and said in a tragic whisper, “ My dear unknown friend, 
your intellect is indecently exposed. Run as fast as your 
legs will cany you. Here’s a policeman.” 

Ranged between these antipodes — Darby and Bone — 
were several other instructors of more or less negative 
characteristics, under whose ministrations Tom and his 
classmates came. 

Dr. Brimblecom alone stood out among them as an 
especial friend of the students, — a mild-mannered man. 
whose quiet gaze seemed hardly to comprehend his sur- 
roundings, but whose ample heart had room for the 
troubles and trials of any or all of the undergraduates 
wlc chose to come to him. How many who knew it 


68 


HAMMERSMITH : 


went to him for advice and consolation as a kindly reposi 
tory for their student griefs ! 

Let me, in this place, distinctly state, however, before 
proceeding farther, that I do not hope or endeavor, in 
these pages, to do justice to the great kindness, the self- 
sacrificing, scholarly lives, of the various members of the 
faculty of Hammersmith’s day. This chronicle can do 
little more than follow the history of Mr. Tom and his 
immediate friends, as I find it set down in his journals, 
and gather it from the young gentleman’s lips ; and into 
it can be introduced only the two or three instructors who 
had more or less influence on the history in question. 

Let the indulgent reader continue to imagine, therefore, 
this more sober background of persevering, kind-hearted, 
often distinguished body of gentlemen, against which the 
light movements of the young undergraduates stand out 
in relief ; and let me not seem insensible to their larger, 
more scholarly life, because the limits of this biography 
do not allow of the introduction of many of their number 
into its pages. 

There was an ancient superstition, — I know not from 
what dim source, — that societies of all kinds were pro- 
hibited in freshman year. Whether it was really derived 
from the “College Bible,” — as the rules and regula- 
tions are called, — or had as ghostly an origin as the leap 
of McKean from Hollis to Harvard Hall, or as those fab- 
ulous legends which are retailed for the purpose of making 
each particular freshman hair to stand on end, is not at 
this distance known. The veneration usually paid to col- 
lege superstitions, however, of never so recent growth, 
was accorded to this, as a general thing. 

But there was a clannish spirit, as well as a sprouting 
genius, in Tom’s class, which could not endure the inhibi- 
tory maxim. Tom and his friends had not been man} 
weeks in Cambridge, therefore, before a club was formed 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


69 


“ for purposes of mutual improvement, debate, and the 
learning of parliamentary law,” as its preamble set forth 
rather clumsily; the “mutual improvement” admitting 
of a wide solution, as Sir Thomas Browne would say, 
according to the tastes and interpretations of the mem- 
bers, and covering, perhaps, the lessons in manners and 
customs, the comparative coloring of meerschaums, and 
the free-and-easy proceedings of their ordinary meetings, 
as well as matters more purely literary. It was “ an awful 
secret,” this club, — “expelled, if we are found out,” 
and all that sort of thing ; and after the first meeting in 
Albemarle’s rooms, where the subscribers were heavily 
sworn to secrecy and lo} T alty, they went about their col- 
lege-duties burdened with a sense of the fearful risks they 
ran, and the tremendous effect they were to have in 
shaping the thought of the age. It was to be no con- 
vivial or wide-ranging society, like many that might be 
mentioned. Its purpose was plain, its character was to 
be severe: what other name than “The Forum” could 
satisfy these classical name-hunters ? 

Albemarle — a Boston man of the severely- classical 
type, cold-blooded, if you will, and conservative, but 
of keen mind and scholarly tastes — was its first presi- 
dent. Goldie, our friend, was secretary. Pinckney, Free- 
mantle, Hammersmith, Penhallow, and several others, 
some of whom we have mentioned before, were members. 

Can any thing exceed the gravity and range of the 
discussions of these young orators ? As nothing but the 
most substantial of names would satisfy them for the club, 
60 they would endure none but the most ponderous sub- 
jects for debate and oration. There were to be none of 
your ordinary schoolboy themes: “Which is the better 
place for a university, — city, or country? ” and the like, 
but heavy, solemn queries, which have vexed the tough 
brains of philosophers and statesmen for centuries, be- 
sides others evolved out of their own intellects. 


70 


HAMMERSMITH : 


It is curious to follow the careers of these ambitious 
young debaters among whom Mr. Tom first tried his 
teeth on the tough nuts of philosophy and politics. 
Time, alas ! has dealt roughly with some. Many of those 
young forms that stood up so proudly in debate have 
marched with prouder grandeur to meet the stern argu- 
ment of war. Many have gone down in nameless strug- 
gles. Some have been lost in the great rabble of life, 
jostling and pushing — towards what ? Some have risen 
to eminence ; others are known in both hemispheres. A 
few pass each other with a cold nod ; still fewer retain the 
fire and zest of those early days. 

And their callow arguments and opinions, where are 
they? Here is Wasson, who was the dainty aristocrat and 
conservative politician of the day and “ The Forum,” who 
made ringing speeches about this being a u white man’s 
government,” and advocated sending the negroes back to 
Liberia (“Yes, sir ; every mother’s son of them,” he had 
ehouted in his peroration, for which he was called to order 
by the chairman, “ Cushing’s Manual ” under his thumb) , 
— Wasson, I say, who joined the John Brown party in 
Kansas, and fell by the rifle of a border-ruffian near Ossa- 
wattomie. Here is Lytton, who maintained that poetry 
was the true lever of society, and inveighed for above an 
hour, at a protracted meeting, against materialism and its 
encroachments, — Lytton, who presides at the best-laid 
table in New York, is vice-president of the Four-in-hand 
Club, and has several material sons, who are diving deep 
into his money-chest for their quite material luxuries. 
And Freeman tie and Goldie and Hammersmith, and the 
rest? We shall see more of them before we are through. 

Small wonder if “ The Forum,” with its weekly meet- 
ings, and its cudgelling of knotty arguments, came, after 
u while, to be regarded as rather a sombre institution, and 
jf it«i members were just a trifle sated with the heavy fare 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


71 


served up to them every sennight. Like so many institu 
tions, however, which do not know how to die gracefully, 
it continued to drag on an enfeebled existence, and was in 
a fair wa} r to adjourn sine die , when an event occurred 
which put a new life into it, or, at least, stirred its dying 
ashes a bit. 

Breese’ s novel appearance at the football game, his 
kangaroo race, his victory, and stout refusal to join in the 
concluding part of the game, had naturally been the sub- 
ject of much comment among his classmates. Men asked 
each other who he was, where he was from, what sort of 
a fellow he was, and where he lived in college, and specu- 
lated as to what he could mean by such odd behavior as 
leaving them in the lurch in that way. The college cata- 
logue gave them answers to some of their questions : 
“ John Breese, Cincinnati, O., Graduates Hall, No. 18. ” 
But whatever pique or disgust they might feel at his 
strange conduct was stilled by the consideration, that 
but for his charge, strange as it was, and with so strange 
a sequel, they would have won absolutely no glory in the 
game in question ; so that Breese became, in a sense, 
master of the field, and kept his own counsel. 

He was known to live in Graduates Hall. Men had 
been to his rooms, and reported their plain furniture and 
scanty array of books ; both furniture and books of rather 
an heroic type, as the simple iron bed, and the Marcus 
Aurelius, Epictetus, Cartyle, Emerson, and other well- 
thumbed books, showed. He was known to be making 
brilliant recitations, his attendance at chapel was as regu- 
lar as the tolling of the bell ; but he was seldom seen 
walking or talking with his classmates. He took long 
constitutionals by himself, flourisning a stout walking-stick 
of knotty oak ; and it was when returning from one of 
these that he met Hammersmith near Fresn Pond, coming 
across from Belmont by the railway. The men were, of 


72 


HAMMERSMITH : 


ccurse known to each other by name long before this ; and 
though Breese put on a little more steam, and lengthened 
his pace for Cambridge, Tom overhauled him with a 
cheery, 44 How are you, Breese? Stretching your legs a 
bit, eh? I’ll walk in with you, if j t ou don’t mind.” And 
the two came in side by side to Harvard Square, much to 
the wonder of some of Tom’s friends, who were going in 
to afternoon recitation. 

That evening the following conversation took place in 
Hammersmith’s rooms, where Goldie and Pinckney, and 
several other men, had 44 dropped up,” as they expressed 
it, to discuss a hamper just received by Tom from the 
“ Duke.” 

“I say, Goldie, think I’ve made a find for ‘The 
Forum,’ ” said Hammersmith. 44 Whom do you think? ” 
44 Why, Breese, of course ! Didn’t we see you toddling 
in with him this afternoon, chummy as could be ? He’s a 
fine bird for 4 The Forum,’ eh, Pinck? ” 

“I should say so. 4 Agriculture, Mr. President and 
fellow-Bomans, potatoes, onions, turnips ’ — fiddlesticks ! ” 
44 Well, now, don’t you be in such a hurry, my dear 
fellow ! ” said Hammersmith. 44 Have you ever had five 
words with him, except when he squeezed your fist so? 
I have ; and I can tell you that he talks like a book, has 
mighty clean-cut ideas, and isn’t afraid to blurt ’em out. 
He’s a topping good walker, too, by Jove ! My respect 
for him has increased a hundred per cent since he spurted 
in from Fresh Pond at such a pace this afternoon.” 

44 Thought you looked a little blown,” chimed in Pinck- 
ney, leaning forward to prod a pickle. 

There was no especial enthusiasm on the subject ot 
Breese manifested ; but, as the host of the evening had 
made the proposition, it was decided that Tom should be 
appointed ambassador to negotiate with Breese, and 44 pro* 
duce either him or his dead body,” as somebody proposes 
by way of codicil. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


73 


The result was, that at the next meeting of “ The 
Forum, ” which occurred in Tom’s own rooms, — for the 
club was nomadic by necessity, — Breese appeared, was 
duly sworn, and continued from that day an active Roman 
citizen . He had pooh-poohed the idea at first, and even 
stoutly refused. 

“No, no, can’t think of it, Hammersmith! You’re 
very land ; but really I fear it will do me more harm than 
good.” 

“What do you mean by that?” asked Tom, with a 
tinge of honest Roman indignation. 

Breese waited for a moment, looking at Tom the while 
steadily, from his boots up. Tom felt a bit nervous. 
Then he said, — 

“ I’ll tell you. I came up here to Cambridge with a 
definite purpose, and, I flatter n^self, with a little enthu- 
siasm and some few ideas of my own. What I fear is 
that your club will take the enthusiasm clean out of me, 
and that } t ou fellows will interfere with my settled purpose 
in coming here.” 

Tom didn’t understand him at all, but looked out the 
window for relief ; while Breese continued, — 

“ WTiat do you fellows do in the club ? And what is the 
curse of this college ? The curse of this place is the lazi- 
ness of many of the best minds in every class ; or, perhaps, 
I should say their lack of interest in the curriculum , which 
everybody knows is narrow and old-fashioned enough ! 
As to what you fellows in the club do, of course I can 
only judge from what you tell me ; but I should imagine 
that most of you don’t know what you are talking about, 
and the rest don’t even know what they came up for.” 

Tom took this for almost a personal insult. He was not 
used to plain, unvarnished truths. He rose, bowed slightly 
and stiffly, and said, — 

“I’m sure, Mr. Breese, I beg pardcn for inviting j t ou U 


74 


HAMMERSMITH : 


join such, a worthless set of fellows. I thought we knew 
pretty well what we were after, and were aiming for it. 
But as you say we don’t, why, I suppose ” — 

“Sit down, sit down, Hammersmith! I shall not 
allow you to leave me in this way. And I really, on second 
thought, shall be glad to join you, if you will take such 
an out-and-out truth-teller as I am, and on the condition 
that you will try to give up the grandiose style of debate 
and oration, in which I should infer that you must have 
been indulging, and descend to tilings that we all know 
and can talk about. If there’s any one thing settled in 
this age, it is, that, when a man has any thing to say, he 
can say it plainly, effectively, without need of flourish. 
But all the genius in the world can’t put a soul under the 
ribs of borrowed thinking, or make of parrot-speaking 
any thing but a travesty.” 

They talked a while longer on this theme, Breese warm- 
ing to his work, and striding up and down the room as he 
spoke. And Tom, thinking him at first a most deusedly- 
conceited fellow (to put his own thoughts into words), 
came gradually to see a good deal of sense, and what 
struck Tom as originality, in Breese’ s way of looking at 
things. That he was earnest, and had ideas, there could 
be no doubt. 

The first meeting that he attended was rendered a trifle 
constrained by the knowledge of Breese’s peculiar esti- 
mate of the Roman citizens, which Hammersmith, as 
faithful envoy-extraordinary, had reported. Breese sat in 
the corner, with eyes half closed, the entire evening, never 
speaking, never changing a muscle. The aroused intellect 
of “ The Forum ” was struggling with the question : “ Did 
the climate of Greece have an appreciable influence on its 
art and literature? ” 

You would have supposed that Breese was drinking 
in every word of the inspired orators as a draught of 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


75 


the spiciest originality, so absorbed he appeared while the 
young fellows laid down their axioms, or set up their men 
of straw to knock them over. They asked him at the end 
of the debate if he would not say something ; but he shook 
his head sadly, as though he were the most ignorant man 
in the world, saying, “ No, thank 3’ou : I know very little 
of the subject under discussion. ,, And Hammersmith, at 
least, felt that “ The Forum ” was snubbed. Breese, too, 
seemed to feel that his words might imply more of a snub 
than he intended ; for he presently added, — 

“ If you’ve nothing appointed for next meeting, I shall 
be very happy to give you a little talk, or oration as you 
perhaps call it ; ” and he smiled very pleasantly. 

The offer was accepted ; and a week later the fullest 
u Forum ” of the term convened to listen to Breese, who 
electrified the astonished assembly by the downright ear- 
nestness and almost savage bluntness of his speech, — 
probably the plainest, most practical speech to which 
their scholarly ears had ever been treated in their ambi- 
tious club. Its length prevents its introduction in this 
place ; but its tenor may be gathered from the concluding 
portion, given below. And, in reading even this small 
extract, it should be remembered that Breese’s youthful 
harangue was delivered fully twenty years ago, when the 
university was slumbering peacefully, dreaming of the 
fair groves of Academe, and not yet roused by the strong 
hand- that guides her to-day. Its rather severe philippic 
character would be quite out of place under the new 
regime and the present liberal university curriculum. It 
is presented as showing the effect that the old order of 
things in Cambridge had upon a mind of Breese’s order. 

“Do you know what I would do,” continued Breese, 
by way of peroration, “if I couid hold the reins of 
power here for a day ? ” 

“ I would appoint a professor, and he should be called 


6 


HAMMERSMITH : 


the Professor of Vim. He should have mixed literary 
and social duties ; but, above all, he should have that 
kindling enthusiasm and sympathy with us fellows, which 
should enable him to galvanize and fire all the dry life of 
this place into a blaze. He should be like Eichter’s ima- 
ginary tutor from Hesperus, of ‘ irrevocable strictness and 
order, sincere friendship, good fellowship, and persuasive- 
ness/ We may think involuntarily of one or two such 
among our professors, as I quote. He should be able to 
receive the ardor and emulation and scholarly zeal of the 
young men, as they come crowding up here from the 
schools, and lead them to still more glowing heights, 
kindling them with fires of his own which would outlive 
himself. He should persuade us that sports are good (an 
easy persuasion), that studies are good, that culture is 
good, but that the perfect citizen, with nerves and mus- 
cles of steel, a mind equipped and trained for every emer- 
genc}V and a spirit informed with the past, and alive to 
the present and the future, is the highest product which 
the republic asks of the university in these degenerate 
days. 

“ Why shouldn’t this professor appear, even if he have 
not the new Vim Professorship ? Whj 7 should the chiefest 
college rivalry be among boating and sporting men? 
Why — except that their training and contests are pres- 
ent, vital matters, stirring to the blood, while our class- 
rooms seem set up as a sort of exhauster, to drain the sap 
and life and soul from the nineteenth-century lad, and 
turn him out a colorless imitation of a Greek or a Eoman, 
whose great men would have shrivelled, like him, under 
like treatment ? 

“If he should come, this ideal professor or president, 
I believe we should see a new era in the life of the uni- 
versity: it would be the age of vim. I believe we 
should see an end of the paratysis of }’Oung graduates 


HIS HADVARD DAYS. 


77 


opening tlieir eyes on their own country and times for the 
first time, the day they are graduated. I believe we 
should see a new set of leaders spreading among the peo- 
ple of the republic ; or rather, for I will not be extrava- 
gant, I believe we should see the habit of England ap- 
pearing among us, — of England, where the highest glory 
of young men is to be able to serve their country under- 
standingly. And, finally, I believe we should see all of 
our idle fellows up here spurred into some sort of enthusi- 
asm, upon however trivial a subject, and this dry-rot of 
indifference and blase lounging, this century’s curse, come 
to an end. 

“ I thank you for your attention.” 


78 


HAMMEKSMITW 


CHAPTER VI. 

A BUNDLE OF LETTERS. 

** Feelings come and go like light troops following the victory of the present 
but principles, like troops of the line, are undisturbed, and stand fast.” 

Richter. 

Mrs. Hammersmith to her Son Tom. 

“ Ivy Hill,” Sunday Afternoon, 
Jan. 14, 185-. 

My darling Boy, — Your letter from Milton, dated the 4th 
of January, came a few days ago. I was very glad to hear that 
you passed the holidays pleasantly ; hut you do not know how we 
all missed you here at Christmas, — the first Christmas that you 
have ever spent away from me, my dear boy. I do not think I 
can forgive your friend Penhallow for keeping you away from us. 
Is he a very nice young man, that you like him so much? 

... I suppose your studies do not let you go into Boston very 
often: I remember your father used to say that it was only a fast 
kind of men who were always going over to Boston, running away 
from their recitations, and often spending a large part of their 
nights there. But I will not put such thoughts into your head. 
I have no doubt there are bad men in your class, like all others; 
but I trust and believe that you have nothing to do with them, 
but cleave only to the good young men who will keep your feet in 
the right way. 


Now, I have been “ lecturing ” you, haven’t I? Your next letter 
will tell me so, and that you are “ all right,” as you always do, and 
will beg me not to “ worry.” I try not to ; but what else have I to 
do but live for you and the children? And how can I help being 
anxious about my great generous Tom, so far away, and in the 
midst of so many temptations ? But I will try not to “worry” 
any more. I trust you, Tom. 

There is very little news to send you. We live on in the same 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


79 


quiet way, and the neighborhood is entirely without incident. 
The Ruddimans were here till Christmas, but are in the city now. 
The young ladies are very gay, I hear; and Mr. Ruddiman is a 
good deal worried about Bob, who is living pretty fast at Yale, I 
fear. So I heard yesterday from Mrs. Schuyler, who was calling: 
you used to call her the “Grampus,” you bad boy! because she 
blows so, going up stairs. 

I am packing a few things for you, which I shall send very soon, 
and hope you may enjoy. Mabel promises to write to you before 
long. She is growing so pretty, and has improved so in her sing- 
ing! Mrs. Schuyler was quite surprised. 

Now good-by for a while, my dear Tom. Write as soon as you 
can find the time, without neglecting your studies, which I would 
never have you neglect, except in case of absolute necessity. And 
never forget that you are followed, wherever you go, by the prayers 
and love of 

Your affectionate 

Mother. 

P.S. — Mabel and Dick send their love, and thank you ever so 
much for their lovely presents. 

Mr. Tom Hammersmith to his Mother. 

Cambridge, Feb. 3, 185-. 

Dear Mother, — Your letter of inquiry about uncle Gayton 
came to me a week ago, and I should have answered it instanter ; 
but, fact is, I’ve had a little accident. Don’t go and worry, now, 
for I’m all right again; or how could I be sitting here writing to 
you? I had a pretty narrow squeak of it, though, as you’ll see 
when I tell you how it happened. 

It was last Saturday afternoon, and I had been dining at Mrs. 
Fayerweather’s. She’s a mighty nice old lady, — a little older 
than you are, — and lives out near Mount Auburn. Jack Fayer- 
tveather is in my class. Well, you see we had finished dinner, and 
are re playing a game of billiards (Jack and I), when Jack proposed 
that we should go up to Fresh Pond for some skating. So I bor- 
rowed a pair of his brother’s skates, — rockers they were, and 
mighty nice, — and we started to go. His sister Miss Edith wanted 
to go, though : so we waited for her, and were driven over in their 
double sleigh in fine style. She’s a mighty pretty girl, no end of 
accomplishments, and goes out to all the parties in Boston and 
Cambridge. I’m almost scared to talk to her, she is such a friend 
*f the seniors and juniors. But I shall never get on at this rate. 


80 


HAMMERSMITH : 


We found a lot of fellows that we knew, — Penhallow and 
Goldie and Freemantle, and lots of others ; and Miss Darby and a 
pretty Miss Summerdale were with Tweedy, and a young Barlow, 
some relation to Miss Darby. Jack knew them all, and intro- 
duced me; and I found myself sailing round with them, pretty 
soon, as chipper as if we had been friends all our lives. The 
girls about here skate mighty well, most of them; and Mabel 
would be rather surprised to see them doing the outward roll, 
cross-cut backwards and forwards, and many things I can hardly 
do myself. And they have such a nice way of joining hands inside 
their muffs with a fellow they’re skating with: it’s mighty nice. 

Well, we’d been skating about a good deal, changing our seta 
now and then, getting very jolly; and as Goldie and most of the 
college-men were playing a game of hockey, rushing about like 
mad, and knocking the ball in our way, we went over towards the 
Belmont side; that’s the west — but then you don’t know it: so it 
doesn’t matter. It was quieter here; only some juniors cutting 
fancy figures on the ice, — figure-eights, circles, initials, and so on : 
so we had a nice time. We were skating the outward roll back- 
wards and forwards in a quartet, — Miss Darby and I backwards, 
Tweedy and Miss Fayerweather forwards. They’re stunning skat- 
ers, these two girls (young ladies, I suppose I ought to begin to 
say); and we were gliding along beautifully, with such a wide 
swing 1 when a small mucker sang out, “ Hullo, Mister 1 ain’t safe 
there!” I can remember just how it sounded, apd shall to my 
dying-day. It was “ Mishter ” as he said it. And he had no more 
than got the words out of his mouth, when I felt the ice giving 
under me. 

I stopped as short as I could. Tweedy pulled back with all his 
might, and he and Miss Fayerweather didn’t go in. But Miss 
Darby and I had too much momentum ; and, before I knew where 
I was, I found myself over my head in the coldest water I ever 
felt in my life, Miss Darby holding on to me, and looking so white 
and scared. She behaved like a brick, though, or it would have 
been all over with us in a jiffy. I told her to put her hands on 
my shoulders, and she did it without a second’s hesitation, drop- 
ping her muff in the water; and I went on treading water as well 
as I could. 

I won’t keep you in suspense, though, dear mother, or try to 
tell you all that I thought of in those few minutes. You may be 
sure that I thought of you and father, and Mabel and Dick, and 
ibout everybody in the world ; but I believe I thought most of 


HIS HAItVARD DAYS. 


81 


Baying Miss Darby, and what the fellows would say if I let her 
drown, and how the dear old professor would be cut up. So 3 
shut my teeth, and settled to it, keeping one arm under Miss Dar- 
by’s shoulder, which was trembling and shaking awfully, and 
striking out with the other for the ice. But it was fearfully brit- 
tle; and I no sooner clutched it than it broke off, and I found 
myself afloat again. It seemed an age before help came, and I was 
about used up ; but Freemantle and Goldie, and all the rest, came 
.weeping down from the ice-houses; and Tweedy, who had been 
trying to reach me by lying flat on the ice, and extending his hand, 
seized one of their boards, ran it out towards me as quick as a 
flash, and crawled out to help me on. 

“ For Heaven’s sake hold her up a moment longer, Hammer- 
smith!” he shouted; and, as he spoke, her dear little head came 
plumping down on my shoulder, eyes closed, and I thought it was 
all up with her. How we managed to get her out, and how I got 
out myself, I never knew till afterwards. I heard Tweedy’s shout, 
and after that was only aware of several men jumping into the 
water by my side, catching us both in their strong arms, and strug- 
gling with us, while a great shouting and hubbub filled my ears. 

The next thing I knew, I opened my eyes on the shore, found 
several men rubbing me and kneading me like mad, and heard 
them whispering anxiously, “How is he?” “Is he breathing 
well?” “Jove, how cold his feet are!” “Pass that towel, 
Breese;” and so on. 

“Where is she ? ” I asked; and, the next thing I knew, I was 
in my own room in the Brattle House, which was whirling round 
like a top, a solemn old party holding on to my pulse, and Pen- 
hallow turning up the gas to throw some light on the doctor’s 
chronometer-hands. 

But I shall be exciting you, my dear mother, and I shall see 
you popping in at my door some fine day, if I do not hurry to tell 
you that I am really all right now, and as sound as a trevet. I 
had a pretty hard time for three days, however; out of my head 
now and then, the fellows say, and calling out all night, “Where 
is she ? where is she ?” The fellows have been regular trumps, 
sitting by me, and watching with me, day and night, so I hear. 
And some of the tutors and professors have called to see how I 
was getting on, — Professor Darby, Dr. Brimblecom, and, what 
cut me up worse, old Philander Bone, the curious duck of whom 
I’ve written to you, and whom I’ve done nothing but laugh at in 
his lecture-room. 


82 


HAMMERSMITH : 


You ask after uncle Gayton. I have seen nothing of him for 
weeks. He has sent me several nice things during the winter 
and used to run out here occasionally. I heard of him in Milton 
on Christinas, dining at the Cliffords’ : he was sent for right after 
dinner, however, and so I didn’t see him at the children’s party. 
But I had a note from him, written the very day of my accident, 
which the fellows kept for me till yesterday, with the rest of my 
letters; and the dear old fellow is in a peck of trouble. He says, 
“I’m in a terrible boggle, my dear Tom; afraid I’ve got to run 
over to China. Long, Shewshong, & Co., who have my name on 
their paper to a fearful extent, are reported in a very bad way. 
They write me that the river-war has interfered a great deal with 
their trade; but they hope to pull through. You can’t trust any- 
body in this world, my dear Tom, and I must go and look into this 
matter. Come and dine with me Tuesday evening, if you can get 
away; if not, send me any commission you may have for your 
mother. I shall try to see her before I leave New York. I leave 
this Wednesday morning. 

“ Your matters and your mother’s are safe, I am happy to say; 
and I have asked my lawyers, Brooks and Bates, both Harvard 
men and good fellows, to honor your drafts to the extent agreed 
upon between us last year. Try not to overstep that limit ; for I 
don’t know just where I shall bring up. God bless you, dear 
Tom!” and so on, and so on. Isn’t it a wild, sad kind of letter? 
And now he’s gone, and I never saw him, or even sent him a 
single word. I trust he has called on you ; and yet I can see how 
anxious he would make you, bringing no report of me. 

The box came safely, and I have been luxuriating in its com 
tents. Haven’t had time to hang the pictures yet, which the fel- 
lows admire very much, especially the pheasants and the stag. 
Since you ask me, I will say that I might have preferred a red 
border to my dressing-gown; but the gray and blue go very well 
together. Imagine your beloved invalid, arrayed in all its gor- 
geousness now, sitting in the gilded ruins of his hospital ! 

By-by, now, my dear mother. You have promised not to 
worry, so you must not, but remember how many kind friends I 
have about me, and that I am 

Always your loving 

Tom. 

In the long and effusive letter which Tom received in 
inswcr to the above, filled with solicitude and advice, and 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


83 


fond, motherly imagining, and which he read hastily c^e 
evening after returning from a lark in Boston, — none too 
beneficial to him in his present state of health, — was 
enclosed a girlish note from Mabel, from which we quote. 

Home, Feb. 17, 185- 
In my room. 

My deae, dear Tom, — ... Suck an awful thing has hap- 
pened ! I must tell you of it. Bob Buddiman has been expelled 
from college. Just think of it! And how mortified his mother 
and father and sisters must be ! He does not seem to care much 
himself, but came out to his house the other day, with a couple of 
servants, and opened the house (it has been closed all winter, you 
know; only old Watson the gardener left in charge of it); and 
he has several noisy boys staying with him. I don’t believe his 
father knows it ; for they say he was sent here to study. And 
they ride all over the country all the time, and frighten poor old 
ladies and little boys by pretending to ride over them ; and I think 
he is a horrid boy. 

We have not heard just how he came to be expelled; but it was 
something about a donkey, — a poor little innocent donkey ! — 
which these bad boys bought somewhere in New Haven. And 
they took him into the chapel some way, and tied him by the 
pulpit, back of some high seats, and they left him there till morn- 
ing; and when the boys all came in, and the minister came in, 
and he saw him, he began to bray (the donkey, I mean); and the 
boys all laughed ; and the minister rebuked them, and told them 
to go to their rooms ; and they found out that Bob and some other 
boys had brought the donkey there, and they were all expelled. 
Wasn’t it awful ? But I am more sorry for the poor little donkey. 
What do you suppose he thought of, all night long, tied up in the 
dark chapel, with nothing to eat ? I’m sure, if I had been in his 
place, I should have brayed and kicked, and then somebody would 
come and let me out ; wouldn’t you, Tom ? I haven’t heard what 
became of the donkey. Do you suppose the president killed him, 
Tom ? He must have been awfully mad at him. I do not care 
half so much about the other boys ; but x he donkey, I think, had 
Vhe hardest time of them all. They say he is white: so Bob .old 
Dick. 

I don’t ride much now, of course it’s too cold, and there is 
too much mud and snow: I get my habit all draggled. But last 
fall I rode almost every afternoon ; for I wanted to ride well bj 


84 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Christmas, so as to surprise you: but you never came. But 1 find 
I like it a great deal better without the third pommel now, as you 
said I would ; but I did not feel so secure at first. I keep telling 
Dick that he turns his toes out too much when he rides. But he 
always says, “Oh, bother 1 What do I care for style as long as I 
can stick on.” Isn’t he a rude boy ? 

Haven’t I told you how I am getting on in my singing ? You 
do not deserve to know ; for you never write to me now, and I 
believe you are forgetting all about us. But I am improving very 
much, — so mother says, — and I like the Mendelssohn songs so 
much (oh, dear! is his name spelled right? I always forget), 
only they are very, very hard to learn; but they are easy when you 
have learned them. Isn’t that funny ? I have to get mother to 
play the accompaniment in these songs, though I play all the rest 
of my own accompaniments. Mother likes the Scotch songs the 
best; but I don’t, only that lovely one, “And ye shall walk in 
6ilk attire.” I like that ever so much; but the minor passage is 
pretty hard for me. 

Now I have come to the end of my paper nearly, and I must go 
down and practise before supper. It is snowing very hard, and I 
hope we shall have some good sleighing at last. Dick uses your 
sled all the time now : he says his is getting too small for him. 
Mother has told you, probably, that uncle Gayton left for China 
last week. He staid here only two days; and he’s lovely. I like 
him ever so much. He gave me the sweetest little writing-desk 1 
ever saw, all filled with every thing. I am writing on it ; but 
I shall never write you again unless you answer this. 

Now good-by, my dear Tom, and write soon to 

Your loving sister, 

Mabel. 

P.S. — I have been reading this over. I forgot to say that Bob 
Ruddiman wears a tall black hat now, and carries a little cane, as 
if he was the biggest man in the world. He talks about the “men 
of his class” too: so Dick says. Dick is quite disgusted with his 
airs, and I am too. I hope you do not wear such a horrid big 
shiny hat, or have such noisy friends as he has. The way they 
strut into church is something fearful. Trim is well, and sends 
his love to you. We keep him tied up a good deal now, and he 
barks whenever I speak to him of you. I tl ink he knows youi 
name. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


* 


85 


Mr. Tom Hammersmith to his Sister. 

Cambridge, March 2, 185-. 

My dear little Sister, — ... I am sorry for Ruddiman ; but, 
to tell you the truth, I never expected much better things of him. 
He was always a harum-scarum sort of chap ; and old Parallax, 
his tutor two years ago, told Pipon that Bob led him a dog’s life at 
“ Grasmere,” and he would be glad to be through his engagement 
there. Of course there are such kind of fellows in every college, 
and we have our share ; but do not imagine that I have much to 
do with them, of make friends of them. Of course a man has to 
meet them in class and elsewhere, and must be civil to them; and, 
if they come to your room and make you a call, what can a man 
do but trot out a little something, and do the polite? My particu- 
lar friends are, for the most part, I may say, a very steady-going 
set, and I find many fellows that I cotton to immensely. 

I laughed heartily over your tirade against beavers and canes 
in general, and Ruddiman’s in particular. Why, bless your dear 
little heart! we’ve all mounted beavers for nearly two months 
now, your humble servant among the rest. And as for canes, 
hardly a man but has a half-dozen or more of all styles, colors, 
and weights. Cave canem is the chronic joke; but you won’t 
understand it, of course: ask Dick to translate. I don’t go much 
on canes, however; too much bother; and a man can’t get his 
hands in his pockets so well. 

The Darbys and Fayerweathers, of whom I have written so 
* luch, are very kind to me all the time, and it seems as if they 
could not do enough for me. I go to see them now and then; but 
it isn’t much fun: there are always several upper-classmen there, 
md we fellows stand no show yet : next year it may be different ; 
v hen we’ll see ! 

Miss Darby is about again, as usual, but I hardly think is 
looking as strong as before the accident. You should have seen 
her the first day that I was allowed to see her after her illness ! 
I had sent her flowers now and then, as a sort of pleasant duty, 
and inquired often at the door about her progress. But this day, 
when I was ushered into the parlor, and saw her propped up on a 
glorious great sofa, looking very thin and pale, but “ too pretty for 
anything,” as you young creatures say, I was almost frightened at 
the change and at the brilliance of her eyes. I stood like a fool, 
holding my hat, and bowing, afraid to speak. But she said quietly, 
'•‘How do you do, Mr. Hammersmith?” putting out her hand: 


UAltfMERSMITH : 


8G - 

anti I walked across, and took it, and felt like crying, to feel bow 
wasted and crumply it was. But I sat down near her, where 1 
could be in the shadow (the room was quite dark), and found my 
tongue to say something or other. 

“ They say that you have been very good and kind, Mr. Ham- 
mersmith and I mumbled, “Oh! it’s nothing,” or something 
equally idiotic, with my eyes on the cretonne of the sofa, noti- 
cing the blending of the blue and gray with the gown she wore, 
and thinking, I remember, how well my new dressing-gown 
would match the same coloring — but I’m a fool ! 

“I’m sorry,” she said, “to have been such a great trouble to 
you and Mr. Goldie, and the rest of your kind friends. They say 
that you were kindness itself : I can believe it, and I thank you 
most sincerely. I’m sure, that, without you, I should have been 
drowned.” And she looked at me, and I felt as if I had been 
drowned. And she thanked me for my flowers, and I thanked her 
for hers; and she said, “Oh, no! they were from mamma.” And 
so we got on to the details of the accident (though I did not tell 
her every thing), and we were quite merry before I left. And she 
made me change my seat to where she could see me; and just then 
the door-bell rang, and the maid announced, “ Mr. Yarnum, Miss 
Ellen.” But she said, “Tell him to excuse me to-day: I’m not 
'eeling strong enough.” And I could have kissed the maid, or any- 
body; for Yarnum is a swell junior; and here he was, turned out 
into the cold, and your humble servant snugly ensconced with the 
princess, — for, as I looked at her at the moment, she reminded 
me of that Peruvian princess called Runtu, “the white of an 
?gg,” from the whiteness of her complexion; and I often think of 
her now as the princess, in consequence. 

But, as I was saying, I don’t go there very often, because I’m 
pretty busy in college, and there are generally a good many fel- 
lows coming and going: in fact, the very next time I was calling, 
I could hardly get a word in edgewise. Tweedy and Freemantle, 
and that odious little Fennex, were there, with some others; and, 
instead of talking with the princess, I was put through a chapter 
of genealogy with an old Mrs. Malafright, or Malachite, or some- 
thing, who had driven out from Boston to call. She’s a powerful 
wagger, and seems to know more of me and my ancestors than I 
do myself. 

Whatever you do with your singing, my dear Mabel, don’t 
screech! There’s a young woman opposite my windows here, tha* 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


87 


almost drives me wild with her high notes every night. I shall 
set the police on her soon. It was “Hear me, Norma,” for an 
hour last night, and then a half-hour’s practice on the tiill, — I 
can hear it yeti Ever your affectionate brother, 

Tom. 

I am afraid that I am always forgetting mother’s injunction 
about using slang words. I have been looking over this letter, 
and find, that, as usual, a great many have slipped off my pen; but 
it is a very difficult thing to avoid, the men all talk slang so much, 
and a man hears it abouc him continually, from morning till night. 
Some men affect it more than others ; and I have heard a couple 
of fellows talking for an hour together in such a jargon that you 
could not have the least idea what they were talking about, my 
dear little sweet-singing Mabel. I think you can make out most 
of my slang in this letter, though. Many men argue that it is so 
expressive, this slang, that it ought to be generally introduced in 
society; but I can hardly believe it: it must make a man very 
poor in speech, by confining him always to a few phrases and 
words. It’s mighty jolly, though. Love to mother and Dick. 

Youre, Tcm< 


88 


HAMMERSMITH : 


CHAPTER Vn. 

EXHIBITING A LION-HUNTER AND HIS DEN. 

** Hold the cuppe, good felow, here is thyne and myne.” — Andrew Borde 
The Fyrst Boke of the Introduction of Knowledge , 1500. 

“ II faut que tons les snjets soient persuades que vous ne doutez de rien el 
|ue rien ne peut vous 6tonner.” — Frederic the Great. 

S UCH letters passed between the anxious, doting 
mother and the fond sister on one hand, and Mr. Tom, 
the young debutant , on the other. 

Simple, pathetically simple, loving letters ! There was 
the mother, following the boy continually with her prayers 
and hopes, as she had written, and wishing all good things 
of him ; and little Mabel, who was growing into a fine 
young maiden, looking upon her brother’s life in Cam- 
bridge, and among grand people, as a bit of romance 
rather than sober reality, — a view of his career which 
• that imaginative young gentleman did not fail to increase 
b}’' adding a certain rosy halo to his account of the men 
and exploits and new wonders about him. And Mr. Tom ? 
Well, he was not unmindful of the tender solicitude and 
anxious pleading of his mother, or insensible to the quiet 
influence of his fond sister’s girlish home-letters. 

If he often read these domestic outpourings somewhat 
hurriedly, just before running down to see the ’Varsity come 
swinging up to the boat-house of an evening, or in the 
intervals of dressing, or at any odd moments which he 
could find, he often sat a long while brooding over their 
affectionate contents alone in his room, with so many 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


89 


reminders of the dear home about him, calling him back 
to his early boyish days. And he made many of the best 
of resolutions, and vowed that he would “cut” this ac- 
quaintance, and cultivate that, attend more systematically 
to his study-hours (a list of which he had mapped out, and 
hung conspicuous on his bedroom-door) , try not to smoke 
too much, and in every way be worthy of himself and the 
tender souls who expected so much of him, and so confi- 
dently. 

He had not much to reproach himself with, to be sure. 
Many a young man who had come up as innocent and 
ingenuous as he had fallen into evil courses long before 
this, and was drifting where we hope Mr. Tom may never 
be found. Many who were vastly better prepared, and 
had eclipsed him earlier in the year, were dropping behind ; 
and Mr. Tom had discovered that his natural talents were 
such, that he hardly needed to exert himself to maintain a 
good average position in the class. But was a merely 
average place all that was expected of him ? And would 
the fond soul on the banks of the Hudson, or his sainted 
father if he could return to the scenes of his youthful 
triumphs, be satisfied with this ? 

A truthful biographer is obliged to own that Mr. Tom’s 
maximum examination in Greek in the first term was 
something not soon repeated in his academical career. It 
was but a brief lease of fame which that had brought him. 
The scholarly fraternity which had received him as a new 
light among them gradually began to shake their heads 
over him as a doubtful problem. “ The Forum,” which 
had been the rallying-point for Mr. Tom and others in 
their more ardent days, was no longer frequented as 
before. The Roman people had fled, or returned fewer 
and fewer as the days went by, shouting the louder as 
their numbers grew less, like their namesakes of the 
shabby toga on the modern stage. Breese’s philippic had 


90 


HAMMERSMITH . 


called forth several spirited speeches at the next meeting, 
chief among which was a defence by Pinckney of the 
world in general as it is, and the maintenance of exist- 
ing institutions. But we can hardly expect to spread the 
minutes of all their meetings upon these pages, or do 
more than record its gradual decline, until it expired 
before “the tremendous coming” (as Leigh Hunt says 
of De Stael) of “ The Institute of 1770/’ and other socie- 
ties of succeeding years. 

The last letter from Tom to Mabel, which we have seen, 
and which put that young girl in quite a “ twitter of 
excitement,” with its graphic account of Tom’s experi- 
ence in Cambridge, was lying, scarcely dry, on Tom’s 
table. Mabel’s ingenuous little letter, with its sprawling, 
schoolgirl hand, and laborious flourishing of capitals, lay 
open beside it. The mother’s long letter, in which Miss 
Mabel’s had come enclosed, Mr. Tom held in his hand, as 
he lay stretched on his sofa, winking at the gaslight, and 
listening to the wind, which went roaring about the Brattle 
House, tossing a whirl of snow against his window, and 
then moaning off across the square. He expected no visit- 
ors : it was too wild a night. So he had devoted the even- 
ing, as we have seen, to his affectionate little sister, and 
was lying now in the attitude of meditative Dumas on his 
Mediterranean yacht, allowing himself to be borne along 
by white-winged thoughts of his mother and sister, and 
his boyish ideals, pondering, in a troubled lad’s way, on 
the mixed good and evil of every-day life, as many a 
youngster has pondered before and since. Is the problem 
ever quite solved? 

A soft footstep in the passage, a double knock at his 
door, with a furious stamping of snowy feet, Tom’s 
“Come in! ” and a young man enters whom Tom has 
several times met in Cambridge, but who had never before 
entered his rooms. 


HIS HAH YARD DAYS. 


01 


“ All, Mr. Tufton, liow do you do? You’re very coura- 
geous to-night ! ” 

“How do, how do, Hammersmith? I confess I’d no 
idea it was snowing and blowing so furiously. My rooms 
face south, 3’ou know. Jove, I was nearly blown off m3’ 
legs, crossing the square ! Gimlet collided with me, and 
I thought I had run into the meeting-house. But the old 
buffer put me on my pins, and strode off to toast his toes 
in the police-station. You’re very snug here, by Jove ! ” 

“ Yes, -rather. Throw off 3 r our overcoat, won’t 3’ou? 
Put 3’our shoes in here.” And Tom unwound from him an 
immense coat, which reached to his heels, and helped him 
off with his overshoes, opening to view, when he was thus 
peeled, a most gorgeous 3’oung man in velvet shooting- 
jacket, with curious linen unconscious of snow-storms, 
and a waistcoat sporting a marvellous cable watch-chain 
and bunch of charms, which made music as he stepped 
across to a lounging-chair, and filled himself a pipe. 

There was a quiet accommodation in his manner which 
put them both at their ease at once, and might have been 
prophesied, if one had but known Mr. Tufton’s long 
practice in the graceful art of lounging. 

The young men’s conversation, as they sat smoking, 
and toasting their feet before a glowing fire, is not espe- 
cially worthy of transcript in this place. It was rambling 
and leisurety, gossipy and merry, turning on Tom’s acci- 
dent and convalescence, the chances of the new ’Varsity 
crew, with Wayland gone, the glories of the French opera, 
then performing to crowded houses in Boston, and the 
thousand and one things that were current about them 
The object of Mr. Tufton’s visit was not made known for 
a while : he was too skilful a diplomate not to conceal his 
real intention under a pretence of mere sociability, and 
anxiety for Tom’s state of health, — a state of health 
which all Cambridge knew, and for which they sympathized, 


92 


HAMMERSMITH : 


while admiring his pluck and enviable glory in the Fresh 
Pond mishap. 

It was only as Tufton was laying aside his pipe, many 
times refilled during the evening, and was concluding an 
account of his escapade with some friends behind the 
scenes at the Boston Theatre, that he said rather casual- 

iy> — 

“ Oh ! by the way, I’m going to have a little supper in 
my rooms Friday night. Friend of mine from New York 
is on, and I want to introduce him to some of the men. 
Shall hope to see you, Hammersmith. I’ve asked some 
of your friends, and I think you’ll enjoy meeting my 
friend Crosby. Eight o’clock, punc. ; some of the men 
may want to go off to Boston afterwards. I can depend 
on you? ” 

Tom accepted the invitation with thanks, feeling no 
little pride at being singled out by Tufton, whose fame as 
a “ gold-bug,” and a giver of select little entertainments, 
was widespread in Cambridge halls. Men had been 
known, indeed, to resort to many devices and much wily 
intrigue to get a footing in his comfortable good graces, 
and a seat at his table. But our friend Tom was spared 
this devious method. Mr. Tufton was a lion-hunter, and 
with the profound instinct of that entire social species, 
which detects the coming roar from afar, he had divined, 
from various dim prognostics known to the fraternity, and 
especially from his late heroism with “the ladies,” — as 
Mr. Tufton always called the sex, — that Mr. Tom was a 
young lion-cub in leading-strings as yet, whom he would 
do well to capture for his collection. 

Mr. Tufton was not a member of the university, a grad- 
uate, a man of business, nor yet a candidate from the 
schools, up studying in Cambridge. He was of that mys- 
terious order of men, who come from nowhere, do nothing, 
and appear to be going nowhere, — a fungus-growth which 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


93 


every university town develops. His money seemed abun- 
dant ; his rooms were gorgeous in a young man’s eye ; he 
gave the most select of suppers ; he dressed faultlessly. 

Legends ran that he had tried several times to enter 
one class after another ; but, not even his golden key 
sufficing to open the college oak to him, he was now liv- 
ing on in a princely independence, enjoying the droppings 
from the sanctuary in the sense of much vicarious educa- 
tion absorbed from his student-guests, and surrounded 
with the halo of vast success in knowing the world. He 
was liberal with his money too ; and whether it was a 
struggling cricket-club, or an impecunious boat-club (both 
proverbial for being without the sinews of war) , a class 
subscription, or the lesser demand of a hack for a student- 
journey into some doubtful limbo, Tufton’s name was 
sure to be found on the list, often heading it with a good 
round sum. 

He distributed invitations to his feasts ; and Sam Mala- 
chite and men of his bibulous kind were captured. He 
presented a set of oars, the newly invented “ spoons,” to 
the ’Varsity; and even the great Way land was brought 
over. He contributed largely to the assemblies ; and the 
dancing set, Glidewell, and the rest of the nimble-footed, 
were his friends, as well as the fair partners with whom 
he was made acquainted, and whom he whirled rather un- 
steadily over the waxed floor. “ Thank you, Mr. Tufton, 
that was a very nice turn,” says a breathless young dancer, 
subsiding into her seat in a cloud of tulle, but confiding 
to her neighbor, as he moves away complacently, that he’s 
a “ frightful dancer,” trod on her feet ever so many times, 
u and he guides so poorly ! ” 

With such judicious application of coin of the realm, 
with a careful eye to signs of the social weather, and an 
instinctive selection of the coming man and the rounds 
uf his ladder, Tufton succeeded in surrounding himself 


94 


HAMMERSMITH : 


with much of the gayest and most conspicuous life of the 
university and the neighborhood, if not the most desirable 
or refined. But when Boston, — where Mr. Tufton spent 
a large part of his leisure in various ways needless to men- 
tion, latterly under the able leadership of Mr. Sam Mala- 
chite, — when Boston asked its usual questions, u Who is 
he? Who was his mother?” questioned humanity was 
obliged to shake its head, dubious. Unless, to be sure, 
some pampered champion of his were present, like Mr. 
Sam, to declare that he didn’t care, Tufton gave mighty 
nice suppers, any way, and had lots of money, — “ rocks,” 
I am afraid Sam would say ; when, of course, the city re- 
signed itself with a sigh. 

Thus mysterious were Tufton’s origin, his belongings, 
his ways of life, except to the happy few ; and so was 
even the preparation of the marvellous little suppers to 
which these happy few sat down, and which could hardly 
have been concocted in the modest cuisine of his board- 
ing-house, — that would have been as great a marvel as 
the celebrated moon-gun of Bergerac’s, which shot, killed, 
plucked, roasted, and seasoned its birds, all at once. Out- 
siders gradually settled into the belief that his suppers 
were prepared in a neighboring restaurant by a deputation 
of cooks from Parker’s, detailed at enormous expense. 
Certain it was that various well-known waiters from that 
popular house were on hand on these occasions, opening 
iced champagne in the passage-way, coming and going 
with dishes, ultimately removing the debris , together with 
the last sleepy reveller, and preparing the rooms for Mr. 
Tufton’s morrow of lounging. 

To come to more personal matters, Mr. Tufton, in 
manners and dress, was almost faultless, if we may ex- 
cuse an occasional splendor of raiment not very common 
with him, and a certain restrained care in his conversa- 
tion and mien, which would pass with the more observant 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


95 


as diplomacy. He had the smooth, broadcloth manners 
a > f a practised gambler, never giving away to excitement, 
and coolly watchful where others have lost their heads. 
No one had ever heard him laugh a hearty laugh ; and his 
ordinary talk was of that subdued, appropriative kind, 
which so flatters him to whom it is addressed, as though 
he were hearing things too private for common ears. 

Dominique Busnot, historian of Muley Ismael, records 
of that monarch, that his prevailing temper might be 
learned from the color of the garments which he wore, as 
well as from his complexion. “ Green is his darling 
color, which is a good omen for those that come to him ; 
but, when he wears yellow, all men quake, and avoid his 
presence ; for that is the color he puts on when he designs 
some bloody execution.” Tufton was not the fool to 
show his hand in this autocrat’s way: he was not yet 
monarch, and no man should know what was passing in 
that cool brain, underneath that carefully-tended blonde 
hair. So that, although he certainly paid incessant homage 
to the “ clothes-devil,” as the old theologians called the 
toilet, and postured long of a morning before a mirror, 
swinging above a vast collection of preparative bottles, — 
eau de cologne , Macassar, bear’s grease, and the like, — 
the result was quite satisfying. He issued from his dress- 
ing-room, radiant, scrupulously neat, never indicating the 
last night’s carouse by the slightest sign, and dressed in 
colors so subdued and neutral, that men wondered, when 
they knew his ample wardrobe, and his long semi-annual 
bill at Van Nason’s. They wondered, also, at his modest 
scarfs and pins, when they had been permitted a sight of 
the marvellous array of neck adornments and curious 
pins which garnished his toilet-table. 

“Oh! I bought all those when I was young and green. 
K gentleman oughtn’t to wear flashy things, or too much 
jewelry,” he would say, smiling one of his inexplicable 


96 


HAMMERSMITH : 


smiles ; and the 3’oung men felt, what a deal of life thfct 
man must have seen ! 

It was such a host as this who came forward to 
welcome Hammersmith on the Friday night set for the 
supper, as Mr. Tom was admitted by an elaborate flunky 
into the brilliantly-lighted rooms. 

“ How do, how do, Mr. Hammersmith? You are quite 
fashionably late.” 

“ Ah ! I’m sorry, I ” — 

“ Don’t speak of it, don’t speak of it ! others to come 
yet.” And, whispering in Tom’s ear, he walked with him 
to the other end of the room, and introduced him to a 
rakish young man, with the whitest of complexions and 
the blackest of mustaches. 

“ Crosby, this is my friend Hammersmith. Mr. Ham- 
mersmith, Mr. Crosby. I’ve been telling Crosby of your 
adventure with the ladies, 3 t ou sly dog ! ” and, whispering 
the last sentence in Tom’s ear, Tufton moved off to 
receive Yarnum and Glide well, who came in together, leav- 
ing Torn and Crosby to skirmish on over the few topics 
that they had in common. 

The rooms were tolerably full by this time ; and Tom, 
looking around him, found that he was in the company of 
many of the fashionable set, a few of the boating set, 
several of the very fast set, with but three of his own class, 
— Freemantle, Pinckney, and Penhallow, — to whom he 
nodded with a sense of relief, as they sat or stood here 
and there, in conversation with upper-classmen, and show- 
ing their new dignity in a certain stiffness of manner un- 
usual to them. For it was the first of Tufton’s suppers to 
which freshmen of this year had been invited ; and the 
four present knew it, and felt important in consequence. 

There were easy-chairs and sofas on every side, on 
which resplendent youth were lounging, several of them 
smoking huge meerschaum pipes absorbedly: they were 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


97 


sophomores, perennial smokers, — before, during, after, 
meals ! And if the racing prints and flashy pictures of 
ballet-dancers on the walls, and the meagre bookcase next 
the fireplace, showed Mr. Tufton to be far from a student 
of high art and profound letters, the general air of rich- 
ness, the cosey window-seats, the pretty jardinieres filled 
with flowers, and the profusion of red curtains, through a 
pair of which the lights on the supper-table were just 
visible, proclaimed him a man of luxurious habits and a 
graceful knack at arrangement. 

Tom was looking about him, and admiring the rich 
appointments, the absorbed sophomores pulling at their 
pipes, and the quaint ornaments of the mantel, when 
Tufton returned to him, and, taking his arm, introduced 
him to the men with whom he was unacquainted. Mr. 
Tom felt queerly when he grasped the hand of Fennex, 
he of the biggest pipe, who rose, bowed, and shook 
hands, without a smile ; and was proud when Varnum and 
Glidewell asked after his health ; and was merry almost, 
when his own classmates gave him hearty grips, and 
beamed upon him. 

A waiter enters, and whispers to Tufton, who nods ; 
and the next instant the red curtains are drawn. Tufton 
says, — 

“ Gentlemen, will j T ou walk in? We’re all here, I 
believe. Varnum, will you be so kind as to take the 
other end of the table ? — Crosby, here at my right. — 
Hammersmith, will you sit here?” and he touched the 
chair on his left. u Sit down anywhere, gentlemen, and 
make yourselves at home ; ” and the men, fourteen in 
number, of all classes, settled into their seats, and squared 
themselves for the feast. 

It is not my purpose to follow the young gentlemen 
through the various courses and the increasing merri- 
ment of the supper. Anybody who has sat down at a 


98 


HAMMERSMITH : 


supper like Mr. Tufton’s, with a dozen healthy youngster s 
in the growing time of life, knows what it means. 

You, gentle readers, who do not know it, may better 
rest in your ignorance, and continue to imagine these 
feasts a miniature copy of the formal banquets at which 
you have been sandwiched between these young gentle- 
men in their later years, when their appetites are less, 
and their cares are more, and they are thinking of that 
note due to-morrow, and whether Smith will foreclose 
his mortgage, and how their girls shall be put to school 
if he does. Alas ! these cares are a woful curtailer of 
the zests of boyhood ; and the gentleman in white tie by 
your side, nibbling at a bit of salmon, is not quite the 
same young party who made such havoc about him at 
Tufton’s on that night and many other nights, — more’s 
the pity ! 

Cigars had been brought in ; stories and songs were 
going about ; Fennex and Malachite were becoming a bit 
uproarious ; and j^ou could scarcely see across the room 
for the smoke. Tufton, who smoked but little, though 
of the best, pushed his chair back, and finally left the 
table, with a few others, Tom among the number, telling 
the rest to follow or not as they chose. The old habitues 
knew his custom, and that he only left because he could 
not stand the cigar-smoke ; it was quite in rule to remain 
But the freshmen, all except Penhallow, who was at the 
far end of the table, followed their host into the front- 
room. He dropped the curtains, and, relighting his cigar, 
sank into an easy-chair near the fire, while the others 
made themselves at home where they chose. 

“ This is liberty hall, Hammersmith : do just as you 
king please. I keep my door always open, and some 
pretty fair cigars and wine ; and I tell my friends, that, if 
they don’t enjoy themselves, it isn’t my fault. — Eh, 
Glidewell? — You’re not smoking, Hammersmith. Pipe, 
or cigar? ” 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


99 


“ Think I’ll try a pipe,” said the young fool, who had 
never had a stem in his mouth in his life. 

“ There’s a favorite brierwood of mine next the clock. 
No, the other. Sorry my tobacco’s so dry: you’ll find 
the best in that jar.” 

Mr. Tom made several attempts, and finally got his 
pipe to go, and then wished he had taken a cigar instead, 
but held on pluckily, and felt the room go round, till coffee 
was brought in, and he changed his pipe for a cigar, and 
felt better. 

“ How’s the crew practising, Perkins ? ” asked the host, 
after some rambling talk. 

“Oh, fairly ! Dumb-bells and clubs mighty slow work, 
though, after the river. Robbins is a perfect bulldog for 
a bow, too. Jove ! how he keeps us at it ! ” 

“Think Witherspoon will make as good a stroke as 
Wayland?” asked Freemantle. 

“ It’s hard to say till we see how we can work with 
him. He has a quick recover, a very quick recover. We 
onty pulled behind him three or four times last fall, and 
had pretty hard work to recover with him. Robbins 
thinks we can pick it up, though. By the way, weren’t 
you in the crew that we nearly swamped that windy day 
last fall, Hammersmith? ” 

“ Yes : I was pulling bow for the second crew, and got 
the tiller-ropes twisted. Robbins steered you away from 
me beautifully, or our old lap would have had a bump.” 

“ Are you going into rowing? ” asked Tufton. “ You 
pull a very good stroke, Hammersmith.” 

“I don’t know: I haven’t thought much about it,” 
said Tom. “ They want me in my class crew ; but I don’t 
know if I can spare the time.” 

“ What are you going to do? study? ” asked Tufton, 
tur ling on his elbow, and smiling curiously at Tom. 

“Oh! I don’t know: perhaps so, a little,” answered 

Lore. 


LOO 


HAMMERSMITH : 


he, feeling the force of Tufton’ s sardonic smile, but despis- 
ing him self the next minute for speaking as he did. 

• s Well, that’ll do for a while- You’ll soon get over it, 
eh, fellows? They’re all taken the same way at first. 
But I used to see you very often last fall on the river. 
Where did you learn your stroke? ” 

“ I picked it up about home, — the North River. I used 
to see the Pinto brothers practising quite often ; and one 
of ’em gave me a little coaching last spring.” 

“ Ah, ha! I thought so. I said to Curtis and several 
other fellows last fall, — the day you came in with Goldie 
as stroke, — that yours was no freshman’s stroke,” said 
Tufton, looking admiringly at Tom. 

Tom reddened, and felt the rest looking at him ; and 
Glidewell said he didn’t see how men could go on wearing 
themselves out in boats, and submitting to be bullied by a 
beastly little bow, and going through the tortures of — well, 
of training, just to win a beastly little pewter cup ; and 
Perkins asked him if it wasn’t about as manly as swelter- 
ing in a ball-room, and dancing yourself black and blue in 
the face, all for the sake of a beastly little ribbon, or a two- 
cent star on your coat; and Glidewell said, “ Oh, that’s 
different ! ” in which nobody denied him ; and Crosby was 
asked what was the news from New York, and answered 
that “ every thing was lovely,” which was received as con- 
clusive : and so these learned young men prattled on, from 
one light subject to another ; and the party in the supper- 
room grew more hilarious as their songs grew more numer- 
vus and confused. 

A tremendous crash was heard on a sudden ; and Tufton 
v alked quietly to the curtains, and drew them apart. If 
there was one thing at which he rebelled, it was a sudden 
noise. An enemy might say that he was afraid of some- 
thing, say, a sudden grasp of a policeman on the shoulder ' 
but Tufton said he hated noises worse than the devil, anc 
ulwa} T s had. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


101 


Tom was near the curtains, and, with reprehensible 
though quite natural curiosity, stood up by Tufton as he 
looked in. 

It will not be well for U3 to look in over Mr. Tom’s 
shoulder at the disgraceful orgy which met his gaze. It 
will be better to drop the red curtains again, and shut out 
the scene from your bright eyes, my dear Bulbul, who 
would be quite horrified at some of the practices of these 
“ sweet ” young men that you have met in the gay routs 
of the neighborhood. 

The declamatory sophomore, standing unsteadily on a 
chair, and haranguing the chandelier with a maudlin itera- 
tion of Quousque tandem abutere , candelabra, patientia 
nostra; the scientific senior dropping lighted matches 
into a half-bottle of wine, and grinning inanely as they 
were extinguished ; Sam Malachite on his knees with Tuf- 
ton’ s dog Scamp at the fireplace, trying to force him to 
swallow an andiron ; the merry junior dancing in a corner, 
flirting a colored napkin after the manner of a senorita in 
the bolero , coquetting the while with a door-knob ; the 
dashing Varnum, prancing about the room with a pair of 
deer’s horns on his head, while Penhallow the deer-slayer, 
fired with the thought of so much juicy venison escaping 
uim, was bombarding him, through an improvised shoot- 
ing-iron, with French peas and the more deadly ammuni- 
tion of spherical confectionery, till he finally brings him 
down in a wilderness of plates and dishes by the buffet , 
causing the crash which brought Tufton to his feet, — how 
the sight of it all sickened young Tom, or would have sick- 
ened him , if its grossness had not shaded so evidently into 
the comical ! 

And when Malachite, spying Tom by Tufton’s side, 
rushed at him, and dragged him into the room, saluting 
him as “Ham’smith, joll’ good fell’, Ham’ smith,” and 
making many personal allusions to Hammersmith’s college 


102 


HAMMERSMITH : 


life, Mr. Tom’s lip quivered, and a dangerous look came 
int) kis e3 T e. But when the young wine-bibber called for 
a toast, in incoherent phrases that need not be exhibited 
on this page, and finally exclaimed, “Oh, here *tis ! — 
4 Ham’smith, awf’ 1 swell ! Fresh Pond, awf’l scrape ! ’ 
Here ’tis, fell’s, 4 The ladies ! ’ — no, that won’t do ! Too 
many ladies. Too many ladies ain’t good ! Here’s Miss 
— Miss — what’s her name, Fennex? Here’s Miss Dar ” 
— Tom rushed towards him, shouting, 44 Hold your tongue, 
will you, if you’re a gentleman!” and looked as if he 
would strike him. 

Tufton and others gathered about Malachite, and suc- 
ceeded in pacifying him ; while Glidewell and several men 
came in, and begged Tom not to mind him. 44 He’s 
always going off at half-cock, my dear fellow, and is 
hardly responsible. ’ ’ 

There is enough of this, and more than enough, to show 
what manner of man is this my Lord Tufton, and how his 
little suppers served not only to turn his young guests into 
riotous livers, but to deliver them over, body and soul, 
into his gilded net, with its carefully-contrived meshes. 
No man is so much your master as he who has witnessed 
your excesses, and pulled you out of your scrapes. Tuf- 
_on knew this ; and his whole policy (for his life, like that 
pf so many others, was a network of policy and diplo- 
macy) was arranged accordingly. 

You may be sure that so skilful a host as Tufton did 
not allow any temporary ill-feeling engendered by this 
little contretemps to remain between his two guests, both 
of whom he thought necessary to his plans ; and that, 
before the party broke up that evening, all concerned had 
shaken hands amicably, (what gentleman could withstand 
Tufton’s honeyed appeals?) and only Tufton himself 
chuckled over it as another move on his board. You 
cannot be so sure what Mr. Tom’s private thoughts wer« 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


103 


that night, as he shut himself in his room, and looked at 
his flushed face in the glass. But, if you had been in his 
study when he entered, you would have seen him throw 
himself after a while on the sofa, from which Tufton had 
aroused him several nights before, and lie there a long 
time, staring at the ceiling, till his cold room made him 
shiver, and he arose, and went to his bedroom. 

How could Hammersmith foresee the result of this first 
festive evening at Tufton’ s sumptuous table? How could 
he prophesy the ultimate effect of Tufton’ s evident par- 
tiality for him ? What young gentleman can at once com- 
prehend the various moves of a skilful player like my Lord 
Tufton? 

Ah, what threads are woven into the substance of a 
man’s life by a careless shuttle, that he would gladly have 
omitted ! Is it a careless shuttle? Who shall say? 


104 


HAMMERSMITH- 


CHAPTER VIH. 

IN WHICH HAMMERSMITH QUITS THE VERDANT FIELDS. 

“ Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 

Old Time is still a-flying ; 

And this same flower that smiles to-day 
To-morrow will be dying.” — Herrick. 

“ He said he knew what was what.” 

Skelton, Why come ye not to Courtet 

T HE early summer days, nowhere more lovely than in 
New England, were at hand. The sun, that had so 
many times looked down through scurrying clouds to see 
if this bleak corner of the world were ready for summer, 
seemed satisfied at last, and was calling the timid flowers 
from their hiding-places all over the dear New-England 
hills, and rocky pastures, and urban garden-fronts. The 
ice had long ago left the river, bumping its way seaward 
through the numerous bridges, the curse of boating-men : 
even the icy circlets about their lower timbers, which 
hung in stubborn rings long after the river was free, 
had vanished before the warm winds blowing over the 
marshes, and opening the doors of the boat-houses for 
the first adventurous crews. The treacherous roof of 
Fresh Pond, which had let Mr. Tom and Miss Darby 
through into its cold quarters several months ago, had 
long since been cut into glistening cubes, and packed 
away in the ice-houses which fine the shore, whence, in 
due course of time, it will issue to travel to the Indies, or 
bring relief in clamorous hospital-wards, or cool the fer- 
vors of next winter’s ball-rooms, or, perhaps, to tinkle 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


105 


in many a glass at club, and public-house, and college- 
supper, where Mr. Tom may take his revenge on its 
former freezing hospitality. 

Boating-men were happy to be released from their mo- 
notonous winter practice, and to launch their various craft 
on the river once more. Crews which had been under 
watchful eyes all winter, forbidden indulgences of every 
sort, kept up to their daily work at clubs and dumb-bells 
and weights, by a merciless captain, now tried their 
strength and their new stroke in their boats, and were 
wonderfully mysterious over success and failure alike. 
Courageous freshmen, who now ventured to embark in 
cranky shells, with novel outriggers and oars, crawled 
along the winding stream, and were fished up here and 
there by passing crews. Pale students, paler from the 
winter’s hard work and confinement, paddled up and down 
in “ constitutionals,” often furtively concealing a book 
between their feet. Less studious men, on pleasure bent, 
rowed leisurely to Watertown, where the famous Spring 
Hotel offered abundant cheer ; or down stream to Boston, 
where they tied up at Braman’s Baths, and scattered for 
Ripley’s or Parker’s, or other haunts well known to the 
inquisitive student. Still more daring crews and pair-oars 
ventured as far as Hull and Point Shirley, famous for 
fish-dinners and jolly-tar revelry. In the very preceding 
year, indeed, a crew had gone as far as Nahant, and was 
nearly swamped by a north-west wind in returning. 

Of an evening, when the primitive boat-houses of the 
day were filled with men in all stages of dressing, boats 
putting off, perhaps, to have a brush with some local wa- 
termen or Boston crew, captains giving their orders, oars 
flashing, and the banks lined with men watching and 
criticising, it was a pretty sight, — tell me, dear lover of 
ttorses, polishing your Mexican bit over j^onder, was it 
not ? Many a time have I seen your broad back rising 


106 


HAMMERSMITH : 


and falling before me, regular as a trip-hammer, as 1 
pulled behind 3 T ou, and put my last pound on my oar, to 
keep up with your slashing stroke. But you stepped out 
of the boat as cool and fresh as a water-god, while the 
rest of us fellows were white about the mouth, and trem- 
bled just a bit, and could hardly climb up the ropes, 
which was the only way of reaching the houses in those 
primeval boating-days. 

Cricketers, too, — merry fellows in white flannel suits, — 
pitched their wickets of an afternoon on the Delta, and 
bowled away at each other’s stumps till the bell rang for 
afternoon recitation. If you had been near them, you 
would have heard them forever discussing the nice techni- 
calities of their graceful game, — the comparative merits 
of underhand and round-arm bowling, the draw and the 
drive, hit to leg and off, or shouting, “ Oh, a beauty, 
Smith ! ” “ Well cut, Brown ! ” “ Stumped, by Jove ! 

Yes, your foot was out of the crease ! ” as their practice 
went on. Or they packed themselves into coaches, with 
a profusion of bats and gloves and pads ; and with a half- 
dozen rosy-white fellows clinging on the top, cheering and 
singing, the}’' rattled away to play a match with the “ Bos- 
tons,” or the new “ Aristonicans ” of Roxbury, or other 
neighboring club. The gentlemanly “ Nonantums ” of 
Newton, who had, later, a brief but brilliant existence, 
were not yet organized. 

What hearty, joyous young fellows they were ! You 
would see a couple of them practising slow twisters at 
each other for hours together : indeed, the good Oxytone, 
professor of Greek, hearing a strange hubbub above his 
head in Holworthy one evening, went up, and found Hali- 
purton and his chum bowling at an improvised wicket in 
flieir bedroom, and practising the drop-catch with each 
other, quite regardless of stud} T -hour regulations. And 
men often ran down to East Cambridge of a Saturday 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


107 


uoming to the “ Bostons’ ” grounds, and stood np for an 
hour or two, elaborately padded and gloved, to he howled 
at by their professional, — an Englishman from the Mary- 
lebone Club, who spoke of Lilly white and Pilch and 
“Old Clarke,” the great slow bowler, as personal ac- 
quaintances, and dropped his h’s over many an account 
of two-day matches with Eton and Harrow, and the All- 
England Eleven ; while various red-faced gentry in cords, 
with flamboyant neckerchiefs, smoking short clay pipes, 
leaned on their favorite bats, or lay on the close-cut grass, 
criticising genially the dapper “ college-boys.” 

Walking-men, sure again of good roads, strode off to 
Mount Auburn, or Belmont, or the heights in Somerville, 
or, if anxious for a longer stretch, to West Cambridge and 
around Fresh Pond, or to Watertown, or Parker’s Hill, 
returning often with wild flowers, and bringing a whiff of 
the woods, and a spicy gusto into their close scholastic 
life. 

With balmy weather came also the throwing-up of col- 
lege-windows, and the upward incense of fumacious men, 
sitting mild-eyed in ample window-seats, and sending their 
smoke to mingle with the tender green of the elm foliage ; 
came, also, an occasional shout of “Heads out!” from 
some diligent lounger, — the signal that an unprotected 
young woman was crossing the college-yard, sweetly un- 
conscious of the ancient custom, but likely to have it 
impressed on her by the rapid opening of windows, and 
protruding of student heads. 

On still and moonlit nights came the Glee Club, from its 
i corns on the corner of Holyoke and Harvard Streets, and 
sang its echoing glees about the college-steps, — the pen- 
sive “Lovely Night,” and the Marschner “ Serenade ; ” 
the “Artillerist’s Oath,” with its strong anvil-notes; 
Boieldieu’s “ Praise of the Soldier,” with finale of ringing 
hurrahs ; or Vogel’s “ WaPz,” which had set everybody’s 


108 


HAMMERSMITH : 


feet going at their last concert in Lyceum Hall. And the 
“ Pudding’ ’ came down from its mysterious quarters in 
Stoughton ; and young freshmen listened in awe, not un- 
tinged with expectation, as the members gathered about 
the steps of the hall, and sang their booming choruses, 
ending with the club-song from some favorite singer, and 
the whirl about the tree near the corner of Holworthy, 
The “ Institute of 1770,” too, on Friday evenings emptied 
itself from the lower story of Massachusetts, and adjourned 
to the shadow of the church across the way for its own 
vigorous choruses, — “ Kumsti Ho ! ” and “ MacElroy,” 
“ The Irish Jaunting-Car,” and so on. And, if you had 
been especially inquisitive and especially keen-eared, you 
might have detected other bodies of young men emerging 
from other mysterious club-rooms, with softer tread and a 
quie ,er dispersion, and making their way to their rooms in 
the quadrangle. But the open and tolerated societies were 
enough of a wonder and enchantment for the freshman 
Hammersmith and his friends, to whom the existence of 
secret societies, with clandestine grips and pass-words, 
and diabolic paraphernalia, came as yet only as a faint 
rumor. 

All these novel events of student-life were now trans- 
piring about Mr. Tom, bewitching him with their mystery 
and their heartiness, and, I fear, drawing him still farther 
from the memory of his dull boyhood on the Hudson. He 
was taking his share, too, in every thing that interested 
his classmates, or the rather small set with which he was 
intimate. He had risen to the proud position of No. 2 in 
his class- boat, Goldie being the stroke. He had given 
way to the dancing epidemic which broke out among his 
friends in early spring, — when the young man’s fancy 
lightly turns to thoughts of friskiness, — and might have 
been seen, with Freemantle and others, twice a week in 
the dancing academ} T of Madam Toey, in Boston, one* 


HIS HAHVAED DAYS. 


109 


Iwo-three-ing with that antique sprightliness. He had 
long ago had his quarter with “The Chicken,” and had 
been pronounced a very fair boxer by that pugilistic A.M. 
“ Lor’ bless you, sir, ’e don’t know ’is hown strength, ’e 
don’t!” “The Chicken” had remarked to Penhallow, 
after a couple of lessons, — “ ’e ’as the most hextraordi- 
nary reach, ’e ’as ! ” And he was ahead}' well known as 
one of the most promising athletes in the class, who had 
taken kindly to exercise from the very first night of his 
freshman life, when he had been tossed in a blanket by 
the sophomores, and complimented by them as “ a plucky 
one.” 

You may be sure that Mr. Tufton, too, was on hand at 
these opening summer festivities, as fresh and bloom- 
ing as the delicate boutonniere which he wore, culled with 
care from his overflowing Jardiniere. Who of those days 
does not remember him in all his jauntiness, standing at 
the boat-houses in the dusk, as the crews came in, rolling 
slender cigarettes the while, and patting big-muscled oars- 
men with his dainty fingers ? If his knowledge of water- 
craft was exceedingly rudimentary, and his criticisms on 
the styles of rowing and the form of crews somewhat at 
random, there was an undoubted attraction in the frequent 
“Come up, come up, and take a glass of wine! ” with 
which he greeted many of the oarsmen as they emerged 
from the dressing-rooms. Where, indeed, was a more 
promising jungle for his lion-hunting than these same 
rickety boat-houses, and this wilderness of boats, from 
which many a hero of the hour was destined to come 
forth ? 

And whether it was a cricket-match, or a bout with the 
gloves in “The Chicken’s” rooms in town; a glee-club 
serenade, or the trial of a new man in the ’Varsity, — 
Tufton was sure to be there, lynx-eyed, smiling, dressed 
to suit the occasion, and always contriving to single ou 4 


110 


HAMMERSMITH : 


the prominent man, — be he great batter, graceful boxer ; 
tenor of liquid notes, or powerful oarsman, — and to cover 
him with a few careful compliments. 

Goldie was perhaps the only man among Tom’s imme- 
diate friends who was entirely proof against the well- 
aimed attacks of the diplomatic Tufton. He was almost 
the only man who systematically refused his polite invita- 
tions, the only man who gave him the cold shoulder at 
wines and suppers where they* unavoidably met, and the 
only man to dare to say a word of disparagement of the 
elegant young Macchiavelli. 

“ Mark my words, Tom,” said Goldie one evening, 
“that fellow will turn out a rogue or a blackleg, or my 
name’s not Goldie. Who is he? Where does he come 
from? I tell you nobody knows, and nobody dares to 
inquire. It’s a disgrace, that a man of such habits as we 
know this fellow has should have the entree that he has, 
and be able to meet your sister and mine in society. 
Malachite is to blame for that. And that friend of his, — 
what’s his name? — Crosby! I didn’t have the distin- 
guished honor of his acquaintance, as I’m not down on 
my Lord Tufton’s books, thank Heaven! But I fancy 
I can tell a gambler when I see him ; and, if ever I 
clapped eye on one of the nimble-fingered gentry in my 
life, he’s one of ’em ! If you want to know about him, 
just ask your friend Gimlet, the policeman, what he 
knows about him (he was on duty in New York for 
several }*ears, you know), or call at any of the lowest 
gambling-hells in town, and you’ll learn what a sweet 
young gentleman you were asked to meet at Tufton’s orgy 
that night ! ” 

Tom was inclined to resent such severity on Goldie’s 
part. He said that he was judging Tufton and his friends 
harshly ; and had Goldie a right to talk thus, when he had 
never been inside of his rooms, or taken the pains to saj 


HIS HAKVARD DAYS. 


Ill 


ten words with him in his life? And then he grew a 
Little proud and lofty, to think that he had been so early 
distinguished by Tufton’s flattering recognition ; and he 
spoke rather hotly to Goldie, and intimated, that if Goldie 
meant to imply there was any danger of Tufton’s pulling 
the wool over his, Hammersmith’s, eyes, he was very much 
mistaken ; that he had cut his eye-teeth, by Jove ! and 
fancied he could tell a blackleg from a gentleman as well 
as the next man ; and he’d thank him not to be quite so 
quick in condemning men who had been very polite to him, 
and with whom Goldie himself had no sort of acquaint- 
ance. 

Goldie shrugged his shoulders, and said merely, “ As 
you will;” while Tom got up and left his room rather 
abruptly, going, by a sort of instinct, straight to the slan- 
dered man’s rooms, where he found a number of men 
playing cards and smoking, — “ Tufton gone to town.” 

Tom, who had never spoken harshly to Goldie before 
in the whole year, refused a hand in the game, in which 
money was changing hands pretty freely, and sat quietly 
in a corner, thinking over what his Puritanic friend had 
said, and questioning how much was truth, and how much 
mere conjecture. 

But one of the lessons which Tom was learning now — 
a lesson not put down in the text-books, but learned and 
unlearned from the iron leaves of experience — was that 
every fellow was his own master, and any fellow that came 
about peddling advice to another fellow had better be sent 
>acking. That was about the way in which the lesson 
■an in Tom’s mind that evening, and I set it down as his 
thoughts ran, plainly. 

A headstrong young fellow who has made up his mind 
to have his own way, and fight his own battles, and whose 
appetite for pleasure, moreover, and what is called “ seeing 
ife,” is insatiable, is pretty apt to shed advice as a duck 


112 


HAMMERSMITH : 


sheds water. I question if Goldie would have thought it 
well to say even as much as he did, if he had known the 
Hammersmith character better. But he liked Tom, he 
hated Tufton (about as much as that worthy hated him in 
return ; for these things are very apt to be mutual) , and 
he had spoken several times now to Tom from the interest 
he had in him, and the anxiety he felt lest Tom should 
come too much under Tufton’ s corrupting influence. So 
Mr. Tom, as usual, took the matter in his own hands, 
decided that he knew “ what was what,” and felt a sort 
of shame in the very satisfaction which he gave himself 
in deciding against Goldie. It is pleasant, very pleasant, 
to have your own way, but not so pleasant to be obliged 
to run counter to a tried Mend like Goldie. 


I doubt if all the pronunciamentos and bulls, ukases 
and messages, of all the powers of Christendom, which 
are pasted up or tacked up, or proclaimed by trumpeter, 
or sent to a house of Congress, or scattered broadcast, 
inflammatory, carry greater awe and consternation to the 
bodies for which they are issued than those which are pro- 
claimed to the Cambridge student- world from the bulletins 
and numerous society-boards hung up in front of University 
Hall — or which were hung there in Hammersmith’s time. 

Here were the orthodox bulletin-boards of the univer- 
sity authorities, where were posted the lists of successful 
competitors for prizes, lists of rooms for the classes as 
they move on from year to year (peripatetic, and chan- 
ging their abode like the soul of Rama) , lists of those 
passing their examinations, and all manner of announce- 
ments of exhibitions, and changes in routine and author- 
ized orders. Here graduating seniors advertised their 
merchantable property: “ An iron bedstead and exceed- 
ingly comfortable easy-chair for sale at Holworthy 14.’ 
H A hat-tub and pair of clubs, weight forty pounds each, 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


113 


at Brattle House 57. Boxing-gloves and dumb-bells will 
be sold if desired, though the owner is not anxious to 
part with them.’ * “ Come to Brown’s ! An entire estab- 

lishment to be cleared out ! Every thing that a gentle- 
man can desire to make life comfortable, and college-life, 
in particular, a bed of roses; spring-bed thrown in.” 
Here, too, w r ere put up announcements of cricket-matches 
and boat-races, and football-matches between Stoughton and 
Hollis ; and the meetings of committees of this, that, and 
the other club ; with tradesmen’s cards, and the prices of 
wood and coal at the college- wharf ; and professional no- 
tices of this and that Polish exile, or French or German 
nobleman, in reduced circumstances, who would consent 
to teach fencing and single-stick, or the noble languages 
of their country, for a consideration. 

And here, more awful and portentous than these, ranged 
in the windows as their days of meeting came round, were 
the boards of the various open societies of the period, at 
which freshmen gazed open-mouthed, — the Hasty Pudding 
Club, with the placid sphinx and other pictorial ornament 
by the artist of the club, its corn-colored ribbons (“ seges 
vctis respondet ”), and proud signatures of president and 
secretary ; the Porcellian, equally mysterious and elabo • 
rate ; the Glee Club and the Pierian Sodality, the Insti- 
tute of 1770, St. Paul’s, the Christian Brethren, and the 
rest. How many regiments of youth have looked up with 
wonder at their fateful announcements, or have stolen fur- 
tive glances at them as they rushed in to recitation ! Oh, 
no ! they weren’t anxious to know about the societies ; 
they didn’t care who was president or secretary; they 
didn’t care to be “ first man.” And while fond parents 
at home are dreaming of the scholastic success of their 
hopefuls at the fount of know 1 edge, and anxious mammas 
are writing that they shall be very careful not to injure 
their health by too close application to study, tneir Neds 


114 


HAMMERSMITH ; 


and their Sams, their Bobs, Joes, and Jims, are looking 
up to these cabalistic boards on university, listening to 
such traditions as are allowed to trickle as far down as 
freshmen’s ears, and laying their pipes, as far as possible, 
to be first man here, or at least in the first ten there, — 
ardent little hero- worshippers, forever kotou - ing before 
their idols ! 

1 do not proclaim it of all freshmen ; but I ask any 
Harvard man who was an undergraduate at the time of 
great society activity, if their contemporary Neds and 
Bobs and Jims were not considerably harassed in mind, 
about the end of freshman year, by the great question, 
Who will be the first ten in the Institute? and if the 
fever produced by this all-important query did not last 
them through their course, and often take on a very 
malignant type towards its close, productive of heart- 
burnings and estrangements and divisions of whole 
classes. 

There was no small excitement in the quadrangle, there- 
fore, one morning towards the end of term, as the In- 
stitute board appeared in its usual place, with the usual 
announcement and well-known signatures, but with the 
addition of a slip of paper pasted in one corner, which 
was being eagerly read by a large crowd on the return 
for prayers. It ran thus : — 


“First ten members of the freshman class elected into the In- 
stitute: — 

Freemantle. Goldie. 

Pinckney. Fayerweatheb. 

Hammersmith. St. John. 

Penhallow. Lytton. 

Albemarle. Wasson. 

“They will be initiated next Friday evening, July 11.” 


This awful initiation, with its iterated “thanks for the 
honor conferred,” and Malachite’s solemn announcement 


EEIS HARVARD DAYS. 


115 


in behalf of the vacant-minded freshmen, as they groped in 
vain for ideas and words, — “ H-u-s-h, fellows, he has an 
idea ! ” — which caused Mr. Tom, when his turn came, to 
make some emphatic remark about “ punching somebody’s 
head;” the preparation for the final examinations of 
freshman year, during which Freemantle, Hammersmith, 
and a host of others, were gathered nightly in Free- 
mantle’s rooms, galloping over the year’s work, with the 
aid of ready ponies, while Breese was working like a 
Trojan, scorning the practices of the Freemantle party, 
and keeping himself in magnificent form with his daily 
constitutionals, his plunge in the river, and an occasional 
terrific header from a diving-board that had been set up ; 
the class-races, in which the freshmen came in an easy 
second, with Goldie, Hammersmith, and Penhallow at 
Nos. 1, 2, and 3 respectively, and Freemantle as bow 
(who had consented to row, after much solicitation, de- 
claring at the same time that it was a “ demnition 
grind”) ; the final examinations, with Mr. Tom’s an- 
nouncement to his mother, that he had passed, and passed 
very creditably as he thought, but that Pinckney and 
Wasson had been suspended (“Pinck is awfully cut up 
tJbout it, afraid his governor may take him away entirely. 
I hope he won’t, as Pinck’s a mighty nice fellow, and we 
should miss him awfully. Wasson, though, doesn’t seem 
to care a fig, laughs about it with everybody, and invites 
everybody up to see him at Concord, to which he is sent 
off for three months ”), — all these things might receive 
more than passing mention from Hammersmith’s biogra- 
pher, if the gathering pages did not warn him to be brief. 

Yes ; and Mr. Tom’s final letter to his mother, declaring 
that she must give up the idea of his rooming alone any 
longer (it was too lonely, and he and Penhallow were 
going to room together, if they could secure a room in 
the } T ard), — how the font mother brooded over it, after 


116 


HAMMER SMITH : 


the manner of women, and over her Tom’s announcement, 
in a postscript, that he was going to bring Pen home for 
a part of the vacation ; and wouldn’t she please put the 
north room in order, and “ cheer up ” ? And, shaking hei: 
head, she yet set about executing Sultan Tom’s commands 
at once, and preparing to receive the dear wanderer with 
a fitting welcome. 

So about the 20th of July, these two young buck* 
descended upon the quiet home on the Hudson, gay with 
knots of crimson ribbon at their buttonholes, and crimson 
handkerchiefs, which they allowed to appear seductively 
from their pockets, — none the less bright and cheery 
themselves ; for they came with the airs of conquerors, 
and brought a different atmosphere, and much foreign 
movement, into the rather stagnant life at “ Ivy Hill.” 

And their boy was changed to the doting mother, and 
to young Mabel, who had shot up fair and tall by this 
time, and who almost blushed, as Tom came bounding up, 
and kissed her, and was fairly covered with becoming 
blushes, when Tom presented “My friend Penhallow, 
Mabel,” and Penhallow bowed elaborately, and said, “I 
am very happy to meet you, Miss Hammersmith,” — Miss 
Hammersmith! she who had been plain “Mabel” till 
then, or “Miss Mabel” at most. The mother hugged 
her dear returned boy to her heart, and would not let him 
go ; and yet felt that he was not the same Tom who had 
gone away from her a ten-month ago, — such a long ten- 
month ! She was very glad to see Mr. Penhallow, and 
did all that an absorbed parent could do to make the 
young men’s visit pleasant; for she appreciated that it 
was but a visit, even to Tom : and she had a shadowy 
notion that she must prepare as attractive as possible a 
counterpoise to the gay life that the lad must have been 
leading, lest he grow weary of home, and wish himself 
away 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


117 


Yes, slie felt that he was changed. He was no longer 
the simple Tom, so artless, so devoted, so naturally im- 
petuous, as before 1 He had an absorbed air. His voice 
was more manly and decided, as she had expected, of 
course ; but it had a harsher tone. He had lost the half- 
shrinking manners of boyhood, and had now almost a 
swagger, as he strutted about the place with Penhallow ; 
and, horror of horrors ! he had picked up the filthy habit 
of smoking. And the poor widow's heart received a more 
cruel blow than ever when she saw her darling boy giving 
way to this “ horrid, horrid vice." She felt that her influ- 
ence over him was indeed waning. She remonstrated 
with him when she had him alone ; but he met her anxious 
pleading with a trifling jest, and quoted hosts of the head 
men in the upper classes in Cambridge who smoked, and 
smoked incessantly. 

And she remonstrated, with abated force, at his fine 
clothes, and the money that he must have spent on them. 
But he said, “ You should see some of the fellows ! Why, 
I’m dressed more quietly than almost any man in my 
class." And she was sorry that he was going to move 
into the college-yard with a room-mate. “ W"hat ! don’t 
you like Penhallow?" asked Tom. And, of course, she 
did; “but, then" — And Tom put his arm around her 
impulsively, and told her she must not have so many 
“notions;" that he could take care of himself. She 
appreciated that only too well, alas ! and went on wonder- 
ing over the maternal problem which has vexed so many 
fair heads before, — why boys cannot be kept alwaj^s boys, 
and girls always girls ? 

She knew the Hammersmith nature better than Goldie, 
however, and was aware that too much remonstrance 
would be worse than none ; and she could only pray God 
that her Tom might not forget her entirely, or fall into 
evil courses in his succeeding years. She did not thor 


L18 


HAMMERSMITH : 


ouglily like young Penkallow, gentlemanly and polite as 
lie always was. He had a more hardened, sarcastic man- 
ner than her Tom ; and she* feared his influence. The 
young men lingered too long in the dining-room after 
dinner, she thought ; and once or twice, when Tom had 
insisted on having Bob Ruddiman over to dine, they had 
taken too much wine, as she feared. The}' sang college- 
songs, which came floating out to Mabel and her on the 
piazza ; and there was much boisterous laughter and 
clinking of glasses. The young men, too, had many 
knowing winks and dumb-shows among themselves, which 
she could not understand ; and, altogether, she wished it 
was not so, but that she had her boyish old Tom back 
again, with all his gentle, loving ways, and that there 
might be no change. Ah, me ! 

Meanwhile the young men were beguiling the time as 
pleasantly as such careless youngsters are wont. 

If some of the stories that they brought home, as 
many of their songs, were of a rather questionable char- 
acter, better suited for Tufton’s gay chambers than the 
widow’s dining-room, there were many, also, which they 
retailed to the mother and Mabel, to their vast entertain- 
ment. Penhallow, who could play a few chords on the 
piano, contrived to make them do heavy duty, by way of 
accompaniment, to a number of comic songs ; and Mabel 
was intensely amused at their piquancy, and thought she 
had “ never heard any thing half so funny,” when Tom 
and Penhallow, arrayed in solemn black, with open music - 
books in their hands, which they thumbed vigorously, 
stood up by the piano, and sang, though without accom- 
paniment, the serio-comic ditty of “Josephus and Bo- 
nunca,” of abbreviated finale. Ruddiman was fired to 
emulation, too, and essayed a song of Yale. But his voice 
was not designed for a solo; and, though he grinned 
feebly when he came to the funny parts, it seemed verj 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


119 


serious work to the rest ; and he looked rather sheepish 
when he had finished. Mabel said, “Oh! that was very 
funny.” But Bob knew she didn’t think so ; and he felt 
more uncomfortable still. 

Ruddiman, in fact, was never cut out for a parlor orna- 
ment, and had a number of fashionable sisters just enough 
older than himself to make him feel his own gaucherie , 
which the young ladies took care, also, to impress upon 
him on all important occasions. An early career with 
governesses and tutors (whose positions were far from 
sinecures with the lively young animal Bob) had led up 
to a later intimacy with grooms and gardeners, and men 
about the place, in whose company he had spent most of 
his time, and from whom he had learned many things that 
might better have been omitted in his education. 

His stables were full this summer. The family was 
away at Saratoga, with a single pair of horses ; and Bob 
never tired of driving and riding and roystering with the 
young Harvard men, who were made free of his horses, 
and lured over to “ Grasmere ” almost daily by the lively 
young gentleman in charge. 

The river was as tempting as ever in the cool of mid- 
summer evenings, when Tom had been accustomed to 
row ; but the men had had enough of boats for many a 
long day, they said, and preferred the diversions on land 
which Ruddiman and their own devices provided. And 
they scandalized the neighborhood with their boisterous 
conduct ; and Mrs. Schuyler and Mrs. Bogardus called as 
often as possible to gather food for gossip and village 
amplification, that the young gentlemen’s reputations 
might not dwindle in eclipse. 

One Sunday, in fact, when the young men came out of 
church (there had been a very affecting sermon by the 
Rev. Lawnsleeve of New York), and found Ruddiman 
waiting for them with his dog-cart, smoking an immense 


120 


HAMMERSMITH : 


cigar, and he called them up and drove them off, with a 
shout to his horses, cutting Mrs. Van Wyck’s coach-dog 
with his whip as he whirled away, there was a great com- 
motion. Mrs. Schuyler prophesied that no good would 
come of Tom’s associating with young Ruddiman, whose 
father had better come and look after him if he didn’t 
want to see him in the penitentiary some day. The village 
busybcdies caught up the incident with gusto. The report 
soon spread, that the young reprobates had actually lighted 
their cigars in the vestibule, in the face and eyes of the 
congregation coming out ; and people wondered how a 
certain mother could be so blind, and what the father 
would have thought to see such goings-on. 

But the young men were hardly as abandoned, and 
utterly given over to the Evil One, as the quiet hamlet 
would like to make them out. What sinister atoms can 
there be in the human brain that delight in twisting and 
torturing and magnifying the errors of their kind ? 

Though these gay young gentlemen strutted and sim- 
pered about the town as if they were thinking of buying 
it for a pasture, and ogled the few buxom beauties of the 
place with the air of connoisseurs, and stared in at the 
milliner’s with deused knowing airs, and nodded to young 
Mangul Wurzel and his cronies as if they said, “How 
are 3’ou, old cabbage-seeds and gunny-bags?” they were 
harmless little idiots, and meant no wrong. Bless me ! 
how this thin varnish, this rather dazzling veneer of man- 
ner, will rub off when they enter presently the great rab- 
ble, and push and jostle on their way through life ! 

And so, after three weeks or more of this bucolic merri- 
ment, which had set the village teapot boiling and fizzing 
so spitefully, the party broke up„. Ruddiman was sum- 
moned to Saratoga to render an account of his steward- 
ship ; and his green suit and shiny red face, which had 
made him such a picturesque addition at “Ivy Hill,’ 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


121 


were seen there no more that summer. Penhallow, who 
had accepted Buddiman’s hospitality, but by no means 
approved of his coarse manners, went off to join a walk- 
ing-party of Boston men in the White Mountains ; and 
Tom remained at home. 

The} r had brought many novel glimpses of life to Miss 
Mabel among the other effects of their visit ; and the 
young girl felt more than ever that it must be like living 
in a romance to be amid the whirl and excitement and 
fine setting of their daily existence. They had not 
thought fit to cultivate the sweet young singer. She was 
a mere girl yet , and “ Girls are such infernal idiots ! ” 
said Bob, speaking from domestic experience perhaps 
But she had heard and seen and imagined enough to 
believe that they were all young princes in disguise 
(whether princes of darkness or of light she did not ask 
herself) ; but, as a matter of course, they were princes 
of light, pure and chivalric of life. 

And when they were separating, and Penhallow, mak- 
ing his adieus, said to Mabel, “I hope we shall see you 
in Cambridge some day, Miss Hammersmith,” she blushed, 
and said she didn’t know ; for she had never thought of 
such a thing as intruding on this enchanted ground, and 
actually seeing and enjoying all the beautiful things of 
which she had heard. 

Then she turned to Tom, who broke out with, “ Oh, yes ! 
we’ll have her come up some day. I think she would enjoy 
it. But she’s too young yet.” And she felt very small at 
tliis, and as if these were very critical princes after all. 

At last Tom, too, left, to stop a week in Stockbridge 
before returning to Cambridge. And Mabel came to her 
mother, when they were all gone, and the old quiet was 
resumed, and, leaning her head against her, asked, 
“ Wasn’t it all very bright and merry when they were all 
here together, mother ? ” And Mrs. Hammersmith said 
“ Yes, my child,” and kissed her. 


122 


HAMMERSMITH : 


CHAPTER IX. 


A FRESH EXCURSION INTO VERDANCY. 


“ Don’t pour water on a drowned mouse.” 


Old Pbovebb. 


“ After a little while, lifting his head from the collar of reflection, he removed 
the talisman of silence from the treasure of speech, and scattered skirtsful of 
brilliant gems and princely pearls before the company in h\s mirth-exciting 
deliveries.” — Oriental B ahar-Dandsh. 



UR duty now is to chronicle a fact about Mr. Tom, 


V-/ which, however discreditable to him as the chief 
actor in these pages, and however incongruous with the 
3 r oung gentleman’s previous resolutions, is yet necessary 
for those readers who would duly estimate the temptations 
with which he was surrounded. For certain it is, that 
after having had all his finer feelings outraged at the 
beginning of his college-course by the rough scenes and 
midnight hazing with which he was greeted, after having 
been himself put to bed, and smoked out, and otherwise 
made to suffer for the privilege of coming up to Cam- 
oridge, and after having resolved that it was all unworthy 
of gentlemen, and that, for his part, he would have nothing 
to do with it, we find 'him, very soon after his return, set- 
ting himself up for a tyrant and a hazer, against all his 
better convictions, and going the very way which he had 
resolved against. 

We do not attempt to defend him, much less to analyze 
the reasons, if there were any, which led to this result. 
Alas ! the actions of youth of his age and temperament 
are not always to be explained by reasons, or at least bj 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


123 


reasons that would find favor with maturer critics. If he 
were an orthodox puppet-hero, whom I might twitch and 
pull this way or that, perhaps the unities would demand 
that he rise superior to his surroundings, and we might 
already behold the sprouting of his young wings for an 
early translation. But he is no such “ goody ” young 
man or premature cherub ; and, if timid readers are un- 
willing to hear of the trials and pitfalls which awaited him, 
they will do well to skip this chapter, and not only this, 
but his entire sophomore year : for, by his diary, I see 
that we are promised fairer sailing in the latter half of his 
course ; though he would be no Hammersmith, if his 
instincts did not infallibly guide him into whatever of 
danger or adventure even that period of comparative quiet 
had to offer. 

I have no doubt that Penhallow, his merry chum, was 
partly to blame. I have no doubt that Freemantle and 
Tufton, and the rest with whom he prowled, were partly 
accountable for the change in him. It may be that Gol- 
die’s rather hasty words of condemnation of his relations 
to Tufton spurred him on. Doubtless, too, his early train- 
ing, which had kept him too carefully at home, and away 
from the larks and scrapes, and boisterous doings, of boys 
of his age, was another cause. 

But, bless you ! do not imagine that Mr. Tom gave 
these reasons to himself, or gave any reasons. These are 
merely my conjectures and yours ; and that fiery young 
sophomore would resent with scorn the throwing of blame 
upon anybody but himself (if blame is to be given) , and 
would maintain simply that he did thus and so because all 
the fellows did, and it was fun. I make no doubt, that, 
while delivering this speech, he would look you frankly in 
the eye, and smile so pleasantly and honestly, that even 
you would forget to blame the lad, my dear Icicle, and 
would join in his smile, and say, laughing, “Well, boys 
will be boys after all.” 


124 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“ Bloody Monday night ” had been passed as usual. 
Tom and his friends had passed the evening in visiting 
various freshman rooms outside and inside the quadran- 
gle, spending most of it in Goldie’s old quarters, No. 1, 
Holworthy. It was, indeed, with very odd, changed feel- 
ings that they lounged into the familiar entry, through 
the old oak, where they had entered as freshmen so often, 
and sat now quizzing and dragooning their successors in 
this ancient fortress. 

Men had been ducked under the town-pump ; men had 
been led blindfolded into the river until they were over 
their heads. One young freshman had been sewed up in 
a bag, and hung out of his window all night ; another, for 
too earl} 7 sporting a beaver, had been left similarly con- 
fined all night in the marshes, where he contracted a cold 
with which he left Cambridge — never to return. Brave 
men had darted forward in the darkness, thrown a stone 
or two through a freshman’s window, and run for their 
lives, conscious of great prowess. At the traditional 
hour the time-honored cobble-stone was hurled through 
the windows of Holworthy 1 , carrying half a sash with it. 
Buckets of water had been lowered from upper windows, 
and swung with a crash into freshmen’s rooms below. A 
whole regiment of youngsters had been put to bed together, 
in a Stoughton room, on the floor, in the beds, in window- 
seats, on top of the bureau. “ Greek crosses,” a fear- 
ful bugbear to un-Moslem freshmen, had been erected 
in many a trembling fellow’s room, when the smallest 
man was sure to be flattened on the floor, and the largest 
to surmount the pile with unhappy weight. In fact, all 
the enginery of the small warfare had been employed 
against the new-comers, who had begun, before many 
days, to discuss the relative cruelty of their tormentors as 
one might argue the points of a state measure, or the 
character of a sovereign, simply as a matter of course, in 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


125 


ivkich one’s own feelings, pro or ccm, were not for a mo- 
ment to be considered. 

There had been a variety of excesses of late, however, 
which the faculty had thought best to notice, and condemn 
by formal proclamation. Several men had been warned, 
several “private admonitions” had been sent home to 
alarmed parents and guardians, and the proctors were 
ordered to keep a sharp lookout for certain suspected indi- 
viduals, and to repress all disturbance in the quadrangle. 

As a natural answer to this challenge of the college 
government, therefore, the bold sophomore youth had 
arranged for a mighty coup some time before the Thanks- 
giving recess. There was to be a hazing party the like 
of which had never been seen before. Everybody was 
invited to jqin whose presence could be of the least ser- 
vice ; all except sticklers and originals like Breese and 
the “ Sculpin’’ (as little Totman was called by Mr. Tom 
and others) , who were carefully excluded as not only use- 
less co-efficients, but possible marplots. All the rooms 
outside the yard were to be visited ; and it was arranged, 
that, if proctors made their appearance, every man was to 
stand his ground, and a dozen fellows provided with masks 
and disguises should undertake to dispose of them ; how, 
was left to the exigencies of the moment, and the temper 
which the proctors might see fit to exhibit. 

Perhaps, now, some hilarious young readers of Ham- 
mersmith’s biography may expect that I am to lead them 
with circumstantial description (as of “Baedeker” or 
“ Murray”) along the route of these merry young sopho- 
mores one dark night in early fall, — a route which they 
eft strewn with freshman wrecks. But they will be mis- 
taken. How the band of hazers visited one freshman 
after another, and went through with what devilish or sim- 
ply grotesque performance the moment and the chief tor 
mentor suggested ; how a deputation from the Massachu- 


126 


HAMMERSMITH ' 


setts Humane Society, headed by C mmodore Whirlpool, 
was pleased to instruct the youthf tl freshman, Algernon 
Vernon Beverly (“Lord, what a name! So small, and 
all that handle to you! ” exclaimed the commodore) in 
the graceful and eminently useful art of natation, making 
use of the youth’s stud}- -stable as a swimming-bath, — 
“the Massachusetts Humane Society especially recom- 
mends the use of the tabula rasa in this course of instruc- 
tion,” explained the learned commodore ; how the Albert- 
son brothers, a brace of blue-eyed freshmen who came up 
to Cambridge with the reputation of fine oarsmen, were 
made in the dead of night to strip to boating-costume, and 
pull a ghostly race for the championship of their room, 
seated on a Latin and a Greek lexicon, and encouraged by 
such shouts as “ Two to one on the blue ! ” .“ Five dol- 
lars my man turns the stake first!” “Go it, red!” 
“ Lift her on the beginning of the stroke ! ” “Oh, nobly 
rowed ! see how he reaches ! ” and so on ; how this man 
had his head shaved, and that one had his furniture thrown 
into the street ; this man smoked into blindness, that one 
baptized under the convenient pump ; how Madam Rip- 
raps, the famous boarding-house mistress, was for calling 
the police when her premises were invaded, and was only 
with difficulty pacified by Goldie and others, — these and 
many other things were among the incidents of that long- 
drawn night, on which we may well drop the curtain. 

They order these things better under the new regime; 
and it is not pleasant to exhibit practices more fit for the 
pages of the “ Newgate Calendar ” than for a chronicle of 
nineteenth-century lads calling themselves gentlemen. 

All freshman Cambridge, then, was visited, and ulti- 
mately put to bed with friendly wishes for “pleasant 
dreams, Freshy ! ” the sophomores parading the town with 
regular tramp, singing stout choruses when they were 
well away from the college neighborhood; while placid 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


127 


Cambridge burghers, pressing the domestic pillow, turned 
m their disturbed sleep, grumbling, “There they are, at 
it again ! Confound those students ! ” — “ Yes, dear, what 
a frightful noise ! I hope Harry isn’t with them.” 

Thus they paraded through the town, leaving despair 
and dismay in their wake, together with Gimlet, and one 
or two of his brother-officers, who followed to see that 
dismay and despair did not take to themselves fists or 
weapons, and engage with roistering tyranny, and that 
tyranny itself did not relapse into license and the destruc- 
tion of municipal property as well as the sleep of inno- 
cent tax-payers. 

It is always pleasant to have a friend at court, if it be 
only a police-court. With divers friendly advances, and 
more substantial ditto in various forms, Mr. Tom, fol- 
lowing Tufton’s advice (which my lord had imparted from 
a full experience) , had long ago secured such an ally in 
the person of Gimlet above mentioned ; said Gimlet being 
a portly “ peeler ” farthest removed from the shape of his 
insinuating namesake, but possessed of a crafty penetra- 
tion of student tactics, which the wary would rather allay 
than brave. And the Gimlet, too, had worked himself 
into Tom’s good graces by many a favorable turn too 
numerous to mention, till he came to be considered al- 
most in the light of a protecting genius by the young 
gentleman in question, who felt safe, and not only safe, 
but sure of himself, which was more important, with that 
burly guardian of the night in his wake, as to-night. Mr. 
Tom’s assurance that it was “ all right, no disturbance of 
the petce intended,” was enough to satisfy an easy con- 
ucience keenly alive to a sense of benefits to accrue ; and 
Gimlet and his friends waddled after the crowd, smoking 
much better cigars than usual, Gimlet, for his part, 
thinking, in moments of fat reflection, how vastly better 
was this than patrolling the purlieus of New York as of 
yore. 


128 


HAMMERSMITH : 


The gray of night was shading into a faint yellow on 
Its eastern edge when the crowd was nearing Harvard 
Square again. Many men had dropped away, tired or 
sleepy ; but Tom and Tufton, and several of our friends, 
remained, warned, by a growing viciousness in the tortures, 
that a restraint might be necessary on the reckless fellows 
who had been conducting most of the hazing in the latter 
part of the night. 

They were in the room of a very young freshman, just 
above Church Street. They had roused him from sleep, 
and his peaceful dreams of home and friends and his col- 
lege-life, — so new to him yet, — and had set him on the 
table, looking very white from head to foot, and quailing 
before their roughness. They had about finished with 
him ; had made him read aloud, with appropriate ges- 
tures, a letter from his mother, which had been found 
open on a writing-desk ; and the little fellow’s quavering 
voice, and eyes filling with tears (for it was a simple, 
touching home-letter), made more than one man in the 
throng blush for himself and the work in which he was 
engaged. 

Ladbroke, a bull-necked sophomore who had just en- 
tered the class as fresh-soph, — a swaggering, brutal- 
looking fellow, flashily dressed, — was acting as chief 
tormentor just now ; and it was largely on that account 
that Tom and Goldie and others remained. They hated 
the looks of the man ; and they did not know to what his 
diablerie might lead if he were not watched. 

When the little freshman was through his letter, and 
Ladbroke had made a variety of coarse comments on it, 
calling the freshman a “young sniveller,” a “ mammy- 
darling,” and so on, he told him to hustle away into his 
trundle-bed, like the baby that he was. 

“ See here, though ! ” he shouted with an oath, “ what 
io you mean by going to bed without saying your prayers ? 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 129 

Down on your knees here, you little hypocrite ! Say your 
prayers now ! ” 

But this was too much ; and when the little man turned 
his eyes appealingly and forlornly at Ladbroke, as if he 
said, “ Can it be possible that you mean what you say? ” 
Hammersmith (God, bless him !) stepped forward by the 
freshman, and faced Ladbroke. 

u Come now, Ladbroke, this is going a little too far! 
You’ve no right to ask him to do that.” 

“‘No right ’ ! What do you mean by 1 no right ’ ? ” 

“I mean what I say. There’s a limit to all things ! — 
Don’t you say so, fellows?” said Tom, tossing a look to 
the crowd. 

“I’d like to know who’s going to stop me, that’s all! 
— Come, freshman ! ” 

“ 7’m going to stop you, if you aren’t gentleman enough 
to hold off yourself! I swear, by Jove! this thing shall 
not go on ! ” shouted Tom. 

Ladbroke looked to the other men, to see if they would 
stand by him ; but they shook their heads, and muttered, 
“ Better leave off, Ladbroke ! ” “ Little fellow’s a pretty 
tender chicken!” “Rather rough on him, I think!” 
And, like man}’’ another coward and bully, he ate his own 
words, and backed down before the unflinching Hammer- 
smith, who told the freshman to go to bed, and forget the 
fellow’s words if he could ; and they left. 

Ladbroke had backed down, to be sure ; but he mingled 
with his cronies, muttering against Tom, and sore in 
his flabby spirit to have been balked before the whole 
uowd. He was a dangerous man to have for an enemy : 
but Tom did not think of that when he stepped forward 
to ‘champion the freshman; nor would he have hesitated, 
if he had thought of it, as I am happy to believe. 

But the party was broken up by this contretemps ; Lad- 
broke and his few pals going off to some much-to-be-com 


130 


HAMMERSMITH : 


miserated freshmen on Brattle Street, and Tom and the 
rest returning to their rooms. They crept noiselessly tc 
their various “pens,” as an able but caustic feminine 
critic has called the hard-featured quarters of those days ; 
whence, in a few moments, they heard the cry of “ Proc- 
tors, proctors ! ” and saw the Ladbroke company scurry 
ing through the quadrangle in flight. 

Later in the day, for the sun was now tipping with 
light the spire of the church opposite, Wasson and 
L3i;ton were found to have been the only captures. Was- 
son, as a rusticated man who had no business in town on 
any pretext without leave, was formally expelled from 
the university, and ordered to leave Cambridge within 
twenty- four hours. Lytton, a harmless dawdler in the 
last end of the class, of whom nobody had a word to say 
for good or bad, except that he swelled the numbers of 
his class, and was a graceful smoker, was rusticated till 
second term. 

How the class, as one man, rallied about these two 
men, the first to be suspended or expelled in term-time ! 
How they magnified their heroism with the proctors, and 
looked up to them as they moved about, this last day of 
Wasson’s, collecting their effects, and taking leave of 
their old quarters ! 

Toward evening, when all Cambridge is humming with 
the news of the vast hazing of the night before, a hack is 
seen drawn up at one of the corners of Holyoke Street ; 
and presently the entire sophomore class comes marching 
down the street, escorting the two men. They cheer, and 
hug the men and each other, and dance about the hack, 
and the horses leap forward, and the two men are gone, 
waving their hats till they are out of sight, and then, for 
the first time, sinking back upon the reflection what sorry 
voung idiots they are. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


131 


The class goes back to the square, very hoarse and very 
hungry ; and the men separate, saying among themselves, 
44 It’s too bad ! They’re mighty nice fellows, aren’t 
they ? '* 


132 


HAMMERSMITH : 


CHAPTER X 


A LITTLE ACTRESS IN MORE SENSES THAN ONE. 

“ The strings of the harp are wet while the hard repeats thy tale.” 

From the Norse. 

“ Malum est osculum, labia venenum sunt.” — Moschus. 


^UFTON’S drag, which that } T oung gentleman was 



-L wont to use to convey himself about the neighbor- 
hood of Cambridge, with its flashing red wheels, and dark 
bay horse sporting a carefully “banged” tail, drew up 
suddenly on Mason Street, in the rear of the Boston 
Theatre. Tufton threw the lines to an hostler, bespoken 
at Garcelon’s as he passed ; and by the light of the street- 
lamps and a bulbous luminary over the small rear-door of 
the theatre, the street urchins and wistful outcasts gath- 
ered on the spot saw Mr. Tufton and our friend Tom leap 
lightly from the drag, and approach the private entrance, 
where hurrying actors, men and women and children, 
were admitted momently. 

A quick knock, and the small door was moved cau- 
tiously, and then thrown obsequiously open, as the well- 
known face of Tufton appeared. He entered with Tom, 
pressing the usual douceur into the palm of the aged ser- 
vitor as he passed, and presently emerged through a nar- 
iow dark passage upon a wilderness of flats and scenes 
*md stage-effects. 

“Ah, Garibaldi, how do? ” said Tufton, as a figure of 
ample circumference, in a faded velvet coat and brilliant 
neckerchief, came slowly into view up a subterranean 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


133 


stairway at their feet. “ Eh — cosi, cosi,” returned he of 
the velvets, producing a capacious sill? handkerchief, and 
mopping himself vigorously, his small dark eyes looking 
piercingly at Mr. Tom. 

“ This is my friend Mr. Johnson. We’d like to go on 
to-night if you’ve no objection,” said Tufton ; and Tom 
felt a bit suspicious of a place where a changed name 
seemed a necessary safeguard, but said nothing, and 
bowed to Garibaldi, head functionary of the lower regions 
and supernumeraries. 

“ Of course, of course,” answered Garibaldi. “ You 
be a leetle late : curtain is rising in five minutes. But I 
keep two suits for you : I have expect you. Make all the 
haste is possible, if you please ; ” and Garibaldi’s fat palm 
received the same beneficent touch as the ancient door- 
keeper’s, while our 3 T oung gentlemen descended a rickety 
flight of steps to a musty dressing-room under the stage. 

It was not the first time that the two had been to the 
theatre together. Much less was it the first time that 
they had been in to beat the town of a night, and drive 
out at a furious pace, in time for a brief nap before Tom’s 
morning prayers ; Tufton, happ} 7 sleeper, having no clang 
of bell, or rushing to cold chapel, to disturb his matutinal 
rest, but dozing away peaceful^ in his pretty little pink- 
hung bed, after a night out, till his man Jordan bethought 
him that his lord had had rest enough, and came in to 
wake him. But it was the first time that Tom had entered 
the mysterious regions in which they were now laying 
aside their nineteenth-century envelopes, and donning the 
tawdry splendor of a bygone civilization ; the first time 
that he had looked on the reverse side of the great stage- 
curtain hanging before the vast spaces which reach up- 
wards into nowhere, and sidewise into passages lumbered 
rvith the paraphernalia of illusion. 

Tufton, as has been implied, was an old hand at this 


34 


HAMMEllSMITH : 


sort of tiling. When the two emerged as knights of 
the middle ages, crusaders, janizaries, mounted police, 
or whatever kind of fugleman was meant to be indicated 
by their motley magnificence, Mr. Tom was not a little 
amazed at my Lord Tufton’s sang-froid , and familiarity 
with the gods of the stage, little and big. 

He nodded familiarly to the chief actors ; had a word 
for each of the smaller fry (whom he called by their 
Christian names in many cases) , and a joke or a compli- 
ment, in a low voice, for the gauzy young girls that were 
encountered at every turn, seated on old trunks and 
chairs, or a green bank temporarily out of use, or leaning 
wearily against the flats, their faces wofully frescoed with 
paints and rouge. Some of these my lord treated with 
even more familiarity, chucking them under the chin, or 
chaffing them on their get-up, or standing long with one 
and another of them in absorbed whispering. 

In fact, he was quite another Tufiton from him that Tom 
knew in Cambridge. Tom wondered at the sudden ease 
with which he seemed to have thrown off his mask of 
reserve and restraint, habitually worn in the university 
neighborhood, and appeared as a jolly, off-hand young 
party, with a laugh and a joke for everybody and every 
thing. There was many a mask to come off, and many 
a curtain to be removed for Mr. Tom, with all his boasted 
knowledge and self-sufficiency, before he could see the 
world as it is, alas ! But he was fated to learn it by bitter 
experience, like the rest of us ; and it is perhaps well that 
it is so. The lesson is vastly better remembered thus 
learned; and it is, perhaps, a kinder dispensation that 
confident youth should go on believing and trusting, and 
making their young mistakes for a while, than that we 
should tell them of the shams and failures, and to- 
morrow’s disappointment which await them, and so rob 
life of half the joy of its expectancy. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


135 


Tufton introduced Tom to some of these much-painted 
young women in abbreviated draperies ; and though “ my 
friend Johnson ” was a handsome, keen-eyed fellow, who 
ought to have known better, and didn’t look as green as 
he in reality was, he blushed like a schoolgirl, and fiddled 
with his belt or his uncomfortable helmet, and, like the 
man in “Punch,” had “ absolutely no conversation ” fitted 
for the occasion. Tufton rallied him on it when the}’ 
were on their way home. But Tom said, “Pooh! non- 
sense ! You don’t suppose I was going to say what I had 
to say before you and the rest of them,” implying that 
he was elaborately eloquent when he had the field to him- 
self. But, at the same time, he felt that it would take 
a long apprenticeship to equal his master Tufton in his 
nonchalant gallantry and adaptability. Nevertheless, he 
vowed that he would be “ even with my Lord Tufton yet.” 

Later in their career, they will not deign always to 
incase themselves in these rusty velvets and fustian gar- 
ments as to-night, when they are performing their great 
roles as armed retainers to the evil genius of the nether 
realms in the moving spectacular drama of “ The Emer- 
ald Grotto,” with its nymphs of ne quid nimis draperies, 
its clap-trap effects, its judgment-day of red lights. Later 
in their career they will saunter in as others of the jeu- 
nesse doree to ogle the players languidly, or stand at the 
flats to receive some especially-to-be-congratulated actress 
as she comes off, or chat for a while with Boggle, the sub- 
manager, as he sits smoking his inevitable clay pipe. 

But it is all so fresh and dazzling to Tom to-night, that 
he rushes into every new scene with a spirit which he will 
soon lose ; my Lord Tufton graciousty feigning an enthusi- 
asm which he cannot in reality feel, out of regard for Mr. 
Tom’s novitiate, or perhaps from a more sinister motive, 
which may appear later. 

Now, you are not to suppose that Mr. Tom became a 


136 


HAMMERSMITH : 


regular attache of the green-room, like yonder plump fla- 
neur by the flats there, nightly on hand with his nosegay 
for a favorite actress ; or that he eloped with the 4 4 first 
walking-lad} 7 ; ” or did any thing else especialty extraor- 
dinary, and unbecoming a .young gentleman of his high 
honor. But when Tufton came bowling into Cambridge 
of an afternoon in his drag, as Tom was coming from 
recitation, and, pulling his horse up on his haunches, in- 
vited Tom so cheerily, — 44 Come, Hammersmith, let’s go 
in to the Boston to-night : we’ll take a bite at Parker’s, 
and tool round to the play afterwards,”— -what especial 
reason was there for refusing? It was very pleasant to 
toss his books to a friend, and saying, 44 Here, Jack, just 
throw these down in my entry, will you? ” to jump into 
the shining drag, and whirl off at a spanking trot for town. 
Less fortunate fellows looked at him enviously; and 
under-classmen wagged the head of admiration, saying 
among themselves, 44 Deused rakish pair of fellows, eh? ” 
— all which the observant Tom saw and enjoyed, you may 
be sure, as do most others who are riding on the top-wave, 
as they imagine, and looking down upon those in the 
trough of the sea. 

So that many a night in the fall, and during the long 
winter-season, the old gentleman under the bulbous lumi- 
nary opened his little door for the young reprobates, the 
younger of whom was rapidly feeling the different rounds 
of the ladder which he had set for himself, and rapidly 
becoming a worthy peer of m3 7 Lord Tufton in the dubious 
arena. My lord was a skilful diplomate in this, as in all 
other things ; and, knowing his man now pretty thorough- 
ty, he played his cards with an adroitness worthy of 3 
better game. 

Meanwhile the 44 autumn twilights in all their melan- 
choljV’ of which De Guerin speaks, had come and gone 
Long-drawn winter evenings and the small routs of Cam 


HIS HARVAKD DAYS. 


137 


bridge society came on, and Tom was often in request at 
the many houses where he had entrance. 

College -clubs and secret societies were again in full 
blast ; and Tom, with many of his friends, hacl been ini- 
tiated with due solemnity into a Greek-letter societ}^, the 
very name of which as only a rumored existence had 
almost frozen his young freshman blood but a short year 
ago : (how rapidly he seemed to himself to be aging, and 
putting on the airs of wisdom !) the transcript of its 
fateful three letters to these pages would be followed by 
I know not what dire consequences to Hammersmith and 
his biographer alike. But when I say that he was blind- 
folded, and taken in charge by his initiators in a distant 
field of Cambridge, led and driven and ridden for miles 
about the town, dipped into the river, pushed from stone 
walls, finally rammed down a coal-hole on a certain side- 
walk, and received by brother initiators below, whence he 
was conducted up stairs, and subjected to the society rack 
of torture (“ ft O xvxlog, 6 aleldegog, 6 fildyxsrog, brothers ” ) , 
fellow-members of his at least may know where to place 
him, and may know also the grip which he was taught, 
which he used so exultantly for a few years, and then 
utterly forgot. 

Sophomore class-supper, too, had come on in the short 
Thanksgiving recess ; and the dining-hall of Porter’s had 
echoed till long past midnight with the speeches and 
toasts, the shouts and songs, common to those festive 
occasions. Freemantle had presided with an easy grace 
which became him well. Trimble’s fluty tenor enabled 
him to fill his role of chorister with immense success. 
And our friend Hammersmith, as toast-master, quite out- 
did himself with the wit an i appropriateness and happy 
rendering of the many sentiments which he provided, and 
to which the freer rein of the later revelry allowed a la :ge 
liberty of addition by enthusiastic classmates. Hammer- 


138 


HAMMERSMITH : 


smith, indeed, had made a strenuous effort to have Tuf* 
ton admitted as a friend and entertainer of so many men 
in the class. But Albemarle, the champion of precedent 
and prerogative, Goldie, and, in fact, almost everybody 
but Tom and a few of Tufton’s especial pals, pooh-poohed 
the idea from the start ; and it was only Tom’s well-known 
vivacity, cleverness, and sang-froid (the last so largely 
learned under Tufton’s tutorship), that overcame the ob- 
jections which this advocacy of Tufton’s admission had 
raised against him, and that elected him toast-master of 
the evening. 

It was no disgraceful orgy, I am happy to sa}", as were 
so many sophomore suppers in the days before the flood. 
There was the restraining influence of an exceptionally 
gentlemanly and refined chairman, who discountenanced 
all excess ; and the presence of almost the entire class, 
many of them sober to abstinence, all drawn together by 
that esprit de corps which is so pleasant a growth of 
college-life, source of many errors and false judgments 
though it may be. And although there was a prodigious 
rapping of tables towards the close of the feast, and much 
part-singing not put down in the “ Arion ; ” and although 
Ladbroke wanted to fight a waiter for telling him the 
champagne was out ; and Pinckney, who had just returned 
to Cambridge, was toasted and pledged till he grew quite 
uproarious and confidential by turns, — there was no wild 
scene, or whirlwind of termination, such as the old hotel 
has seen many a time before and since, I doubt not. 

Little Oliver’s poem, too, was received with shouts of 
applause, particularly his allusions to the faculty, in sol- 
emn spondaic verse, and his gratulations over the success 
of the class-crew, which were delivered in rattling dactyls. 
And at last, when everybody was tired of his own merri- 
ment, and the stoutest reveller could shout no more, ther 
broke up with three ringing cheers, which shook the lights 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


139 


on the tables, and woke the sleepiest cattle-driver in "he 
farthest room of the bovine hotel ; and marched back to 
Cambridge in the frosty night-air, singing mighty choruses 
as they went. 

During all this time, the visits of Tufton and Tom to 
the stage of the theatre were kept up with tolerable regu- 
larity ; and Tom, in accordance with Tufton’ s divination, 
and almost as if in answer to an expressed wish, began 
more and more to withdraw his interest from general fea- 
tures, and concentrate it on particulars. 

“ Tufton,” said Tom one evening in midwinter, as they 
were watching the stage from their usual place (marked 
L. M. in stage-directions), “ seems to me the Queen of 
Love is hardly as seductive a looking female as might have 
been picked out for the part,” — “ The Emerald Grotto ” 
had been revived for a few nights, just after the holidays. 

“ I should say not. Why, bless you ! she’s — how old 
should 3 T ou think? ” 

“ Very hard to say, with all the toggery and war-paint 
she has on. I should say somewhere near forty, to be 
safe.” 

“Forty! Lord, Hammersmith, you’d never do for a 
fortune-teller ! If she ever sees sixty again, it will not 
be in this world. But it’s the old story, — drunken hus- 
band, large family of infant loves, kind-hearted manager. 
Boggle has acted like a brick toward her, all the company 
jailing for her dismissal, — .‘Too old,’ ‘regular shrew,’ 
‘ taking all the chief parts,’ and so on. But Boggle has 
stood by her through it all ; sa}’s she’ll never want for a 
place while lie has the reins, and while she retains as much 
fire as she has now. Gad, she’s not such a bad actress, 
either ! Yon should have seen her in ‘ P}'gmalion.’ Half 
the town ciazy about her not over five years ago ; and 
young Lumpkin of Jamaica Plain lost a bet of a hundred 
and fifty that she was not over twenty-five.” 


140 


HAMMEllSMITH : 


“ More fool he,” said Tom. “ I should have known 
netter than that myself. But who is that speaking 
now ? ’ ’ 

“Why, that’s Boggle’s own daughter.” 

“ What! ” said Tom. “By Jove, she’s a neat little 
figure ! How sad-looking, though, when she’s through 
her speech ! I don’t remember noticing her particularly 
when ‘ The Grotto ’ was on before.” 

“No wonder! she wasn’t in it; had a long spell of 
fever, and is only back a week now. You would think 
she had cause to look sad if you knew her history.” 

“Why, what do you mean?” asked Tom, bristling 
with curiosity. 

“Hush, not so loud! Old Boggle! Tom, you will 
hardly believe it ; but Boggle, who is so kind to Mrs. 
Jacobs, the Queen of Love there, is a perfect brute to 
his own daughter. I don’t know that I have a right to 
tell you, as I only came by it under pledge of secrecy.” 

“ Oh, do ! ” said Tom. “ What’s the odds? I’m sure 
you can depend on it’s not going any farther than me.” 

“ Well, it’s no great secret, after all. Everybody on 
the stage knows how he watches her while she’s here, 
never lets a man speak to her, keeps her shut up all the 
time she’s not acting. But that’s not so bad ; though I 
did nearly have a row when I first came on, not knowing 
the old Argus’s squeamishness. But the way he treats her 
outside is a perfect shame ! ” 

“ Why, what do you mean?” asked Tom, feeling his 
curiosity merging into a strong chivalric interest in the 
young actress whose history was so mysterious and so 
sad. 

But Tufton pretended to be unwilling to tell him any 
thing further where they were, for fear of being over- 
heard, promising, however, to enlighten him on the waj 
home. He knew very well how a little suspense would be 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


141 


apt to work with an impetuous young fellow like Tom ; 
and he smiled to himself to see that Tom followed the 
actress in question intently with his eyes the rest of the 
evening, apparently noticing no one else. 

“ Don’t you think you could manage to introduce me? ” 
asked Tom. 

“Afraid not,” said Tufton. “Not here, at any rate. 
See the old boy watching her ? Perhaps we might manage 
it some time, if we’re sly. But I warn you: you may 
put your foot in it before you know it, my boy ! ” Art- 
ful Tufton ! didn’t he know that this was the very condi- 
tion of affairs to tempt Tom on? Hadn’t he waited for 
this very conversation to spring up, fearing, at last, that 
he might have to broach the matter himself, and so rob 
his plan of its naturalness ? An oppressed }*oung woman 
domineered by a brute of a father ; dangerous ground, 
too, where Tufton himself had almost been mired, — what 
conjunction of circumstances could have been imagined 
more alluring to chivalrous Tom, eager for adventure, and 
careless of danger ! 

“It’s simply this,” said Tufton, as they were on their 
way to Cambridge. “ You saw what a delicate, sad little 
piece she is. Well, sir, old Boggle not only takes every 
cent of salary the little girl earns, — and you can imagine 
where it goes,” continued he, inverting his fist before his 
mouth, — “but he keeps her shut up, like a nun, in her 
room on Joy Street, from morning till night, doing what? 
working at sewing and other such jobs as are brought in. 
And the old villain*, you can be pretty sure, receipts the 
bills for them, and pockets the swag, as he does the sala- 
ry ! By Jove, no wonder she had a fever, and was laid 
up for a month ! And they do say that he has beaten 
her, and ke’pt her shut up in a closet, and done all sorts 
of mean things with her. But I imagine that it is all 
exaggerated a good deal : people about a theatre are such 


142 


HAMMERSMITH : 


tattlers ! At any rate, the little thing has had the same 
sorrowful look ever since I’ve known her, and ” — 

“ You know her ! I thought you did not.” 

“I can’t say that I do exactly,” returned Tufton, 
“ Boggle has introduced me ; but I’ve never had a chance 
to see her alone : he’s always glued to her side, the old 
sinner ! and I’ve more than half a mind that she is not 
his daughter, after all ! ” 

“ What a fiend ! ” shouted Tom. “ Is there no way of 
putting a stop to his persecutions? ” 

“Hardly see how,” answered Tufton. “Oh, I 
wouldn’t borrow any trouble about her ! She’ll run away 
some day, or put a little strychnine on her tongue, and 
then the old brute will find out what a treasure he has 
lost. For she seems, — though remember I only speak 
from seeing her on the stage, — she seems a very ladylike 
little woman, with considerable talent in a small way : in 
fact, she seems completely out of place in her present 
position. Perhaps the same idea has occurred to you? ” 
“By Jove, it has! more than once, since I’ve been 
watching her to-night. Her manners are entirely different 
from those of the crowd around her ; and I could not help 
fancying, when I first saw her, that there was some great 
sadness eating away at her heart. I don’t see how you 
can talk of her killing herself in such a cold-blooded way. 
I think it’s all a burning shame ; ” and Tom suddenly 
became quiet. 

We have no intention of following with a particular 
description along the trail which Tom found opening for 
him, or of recounting the various means by which he was 
beguiled by the way. Tufton was careful to impress him 
daily with an appreciation of the dangers that beset him, 
but at the same time lent himself to the task of over- 
coming them with a readiness which might indicate, to a 
cool observer, that the dangers were of his own imagining. 


HIS HAH YARD DAYS. 


143 


Mr. Tom was no cool observer, however, but fired with a 
noble resolve to see if some relief might not be brought 
to the sad young creature ; and no suspicions of duplicity 
on the part of Tufton came to disturb the large philan- 
thropy with which he was filled. 

Now, do not smile at chivalric Tom, seeking to succor 
a young actress, and calling it, if he call it any thing, by 
the safe generalization of philanthropy. You and I, my 
dear Philippus, who have perfect command over our feel- 
ings, and are aware how specious a cover is this same 
philanthropy, may, perhaps, be amused at the lad’s impetu- 
osity, and see dangers that he does not conceive possible. 
We know how, in children of an older growth, philan- 
thropy becomes the cover of much private rebellion, and 
love of fame, and dyspeptic unhappiness ; and we may 
well fear lest the love of his species, in a vivacious young- 
ster like our Tom, take on a rosy complexion, and suffer 
itself to be narrowed to a dangerous unit, destructive of 
a wide application. 

As these memoirs, however, are drawn solely from 
Hammersmith’s own confessions and the explanations of 
his journals, and as the family failing has never been 
towards deliberate misrepresentation, we are compelled to 
believe him when he says, that however much appear- 
ances may be against him, and a later construction of 
several parties may be insisted on, his first and only 
thought was* of helping the unhappy young girl, if so be 
he could. If, in spite of his best endeavors, he was 
unable to afford her assistance, and if, later, he contented 
himself — but we are outrunning ourselves. He has always 
maintained, and will to the end declare, that all the Gar- 
risons, Howards, Phillipses, Nightingales, and Frys of 
Christendom, were no more led on by philanthropy than 
he, when he begged Tufton to contrive, if possible, to 
procure him an introduction to tb.e sad-e} 7 ed young actress 


144 


HAMMERSMITH : 


tvho figured on the play-bills as Miss Graciana Lee. Iler 
real name, or rather the name by which she received the 
various needle-work at her little rooms, was Emily Boggle. 

This introduction, and the insinuation of Mr. Tom into 
the little rooms of Miss Graciana, — Emily in the vulgate, 
— were no very difficult matter, in spite of the imaginary 
dangers, when we consider the ready consent of all con- 
cerned. Not that it all came about at once, or that Tom, 
for his part, did not suppose that he was doing most won- 
derful things, running, as he would have said, “ no end 
of danger,” and pursuing his philanthropy under most 
discouraging circumstances, — the fear of possible surprise 
and of terrible parental retribution. 

“ Mind, Tom, I distinctly wash my hands of all respon- 
sibility, if any thing happens to you,” Tufton had said. 
“ I warn you of the risk, but cannot refuse to get you an 
acquaintance with her if you really wish. Heaven knows 
the little thing needs friends badly enough ! ’ ’ 

And Tom looked very grand, and, I must own, not at aL 
philanthropic, as he tossed his head proudty, and made 
some rejoinder about “ hanging ” the danger and the risk, 
or something of the land. He did not feel the less grand, 
and neither more nor less philanthropic, as he found him- 
self escorting Miss Graciana across the Common to her 
rooms one night not long after Tufton’ s warning. 

“You are shivering: are you cold? ” asked Miss Gra- 
ciana. 

“Yes, a little. The wind always sweeps across the 
Common so ! ” said Tom. 

“Let me button your coat at the neck,” said she. 
“ Why, you silly boy, your throat is all bare ! ” And she 
fumbled at his great-coat, rising on her toes to do it ; and 
a gas-light showed him a pair of very bright little eyes 
without a particle of sadness in them now, and peachy 
round cheeks which ought never to be wet with tears, and 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


145 


small red lips that looked exceedingly inviting, — but some 
Harvard men were singing towards Cambridge in the next 
mall ! — and, altogether, a trig little being, which might well 
tempt a stronger moralist than Tom to concentrate a wide 
philanthropy upon herself, to the neglect of the rest of 
mankind. 

But the dangerous little unit dropped his arm at the 
corner of a dark court on the western end of Joy Street, 
and put out her hand. 

“ I live in here,” she said. u I thank you so much for 
3 T our kindness ! Good- night.” And, while Tom was mum- 
bling some nonsense or other, she pulled her hand away, 
and was gone. Tom strode rapidly out to Cambridge, 
twirling his cane excitedly, and winding this novel thread 
of experience around his romantic bo3 T ’s heart. 

Why hadn’t she asked him to call on her, though? why 
had she torn herself away so suddenly? Ah, my dear 
Tom ! you are propounding riddles too deep for Delphi. 
You are forgetting your Virgilian varium et semper muta- 
ble femina. You are attempting to drain one of those 
tong thin wineglasses called “impossibles” because they 
never can be quite emptied. Why is woman a sphinx? 
Why are we pensive at twilight ? Where is the odor of 
last year’s roses? She did not ask you to call and see 
her, to come up, in fact, this very evening, my dear young 
ignoramus , because she was extremely anxious to have 
you do this very thing. She tore herself away, and ran 
off like Galatea in the eclogue, because she was longing 
to remain right here at the corner, by your side, her little 
hand in yours, listening to your lignt twaddle and all your 
vows of sympathy and admiration. But you are very 
young yet, and may understand these things better before 
j^ou join the ranks of “ all good fellows whose beards arc 
gray.” 

About contemporaneous with this first escort to the Joy 


146 


HAMMERSMITH : 


street court, a careful inspector of college-belongings 
might have detected the beginning of many marked pas- 
sages in the ancient tragedies and coipedies in which Mr. 
Tom was engaged. Beauties of expression which had 
escaped him before now caught his eye with a personal 
application. His Antigone and Alcestis showed many a 
pencil-mark abreast of an epigrammatic description or a 
noble sentiment ; while, as for his Horace and Theocritus, 
they were fairly disfigured with his significant pencillings 
and a whole gallery of dainty heads and vignettes with 
which the young philanthropist embellished appropriate 
odes and idyls. And I fear me, that if pains were taken, 
and these various signboards of Mr. Tom’s sentimental 
journey were collected, they would be found to point, not 
to the unselfishly beneficent goal to which he declares he 
was aiming, but to a private pleasure-ground of romance 
and sentiment of quite another character, in which he 
delighted to disport. 

As he went on in this journey, came again and again 
to the theatre, again and again escorted the 3’oung sphinx 
to her home, and at last was admitted again and again to 
her narrow quarters in the little court, Cambridge could 
not be supposed to be ignorant of Mr. Tom’s infatuation, 
and almost nightly absence from its learned halls. The 
utmost precaution on his own part, and a reticence which 
told many things because it was so sudden and marked, 
could not prevent the bright skirts of his sophomore 
romance from appearing now and then in the area of 
university gossip, where they received a mighty inflation. 

Small scraps of information were brought out also from 
the metropolis now and then. Tom had been frequently 
seen hanging about the corner of Tremont and West 
Streets when the theatre-crowds were pouring out. “ Oh’. 
I’m waiting for a friend,” he would say, if a fellow ad- 
dressed him. He was known to be almost as constant an 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


147 


attendant on the stage now as the call-boy himself. Fen 
nex could swear that he had seen him once or twice cut 
cmg into the Joy-street court, with a small, hooded figure 
on his arm ; and so, amid much leisurely smoke and gos- 
sipy lounging, Tom’s little escapade grew and spread, like 
the genius from the fisherman’s net, till it threatened 
quite to overshadow that youngster himself, and become 
the sensation of the hour. 

Hence, too, it came that he acquired a prodigious repu- 
tation as a man of the world among Cambridge men, — a 
reputation which a certain other person in Cambridge was 
taking great pains to increase by various personal embel- 
lishments and rather unjustifiable disclosures. For, though 
Tom did not know it till long afterwards, Tufton was well 
aware of the impulse that a reputation of this sort would 
give his pupil ; and, while Tom was as secretive of his own 
affairs as the college-pump is of the long history of quad- 
rangle events which it has witnessed, Tufton, by crafty 
insinuation and occasional contribution of facts, contrived 
to add considerable substance to the shadowy rumors that 
were floating about the college-walks, and looking in at 
college suppers and societies. 

His fame was greater, I regret to say, though quite 
other, than after his wonderful Greek examination of 
freshman year. His absorbed air and pensive smoking 
were remarked by men who had been used to expect jollity 
and laughter and openness from him. Some men dared 
to say that Tufton the Great was ruining him ; and fearful 
stories of his losses at plaj r , and his excesses in company 
with Tufton, were told ; which were happily untrue. Un- 
der-classmen, in whose hands legendary history grows 
so rapidly, added rows of ciphers cO the amounts of his 
losses, and a dubious spice to many harmless escapades. 
They looked up to him as to something quite awful, as he 
paced the yard in an abstracted mood, aftei the fas.iion of 


X48 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Dante ; and it was not long before the story ran, that he 
had fought a duel or two on account of an actress ; and 
small freshmen at their ambitious wine-parties retailed 
many startling facts about him, and winked at their wine- 
glasses with a deused knowing air. 

Ah, what a glamour they threw over the young fellow ! 
And how supremely unconscious he was of his Lovelace 
fame ! though occasional hints of the estimate placed upon 
him came to his ear, not unpleased to listen. Philanthro- 
pists are not of the stuff, forsooth, to quail and halt before 
an unfriendfy showing, to put their hands to the plough, 
and then turn back ; and a Hammersmith philanthropist 
least of all. 


“ Why won’t you tell me all about your troubles, Miss 
Lee ? ’ ’ said Tom, leaning his elbow on her table one even- 
ing, where the young girl was busy with her needle, under 
a flattering drop-light, working prettily at a fancy hand- 
kerchief for the young philanthropist. 

“I am not sure that I know you well enough,” she 
answered, threading a needle, and looking peculiarly 
comical, with one eye closed, as she turned towards the 
light. 

“Know me! Haven’t I been with you almost every 
evening for two months now? Haven’t I brought } t ou 
home again and again on the wildest kinds of nights? 
Haven’t I brought you books and flowers, and no end of 
things? ” And he opened, and twiddled the leaves of, a 
Byron in lavish binding, his latest gift. 

“Yes, you’ve been very kind certainly ; but ” — 

“Well?” 

“How am I to know that you are any better than most 
cf the young men in Cambridge? How am I to know 
that you are going to do all the fine things that you speafc 
of?” 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


149 


“ By Jove, Miss Emily ! you’re too hard on me. Have 
t ever done any thing to make you distrust me? ” 

u N-n-no.” 

“ Have I ever been impertinent or forward? ” 

“ I should say not,” said she with a laugh. “ On the 
contrary 7 , I thought, that first night on the Common, that 
you were mightily afraid of me. You’ll never die of 
over-boldness, you may be sure.” And Tom vowed he’d 
try that mode of death some day, if sufficiently provoked ; 
and she had better be careful (this to himself) . 

“ Do you take me for a man like Tufton? ” he asked, 
casting about for the first man with whom to compare 
himself. 

“ Ugh ! don’t speak of him. I hate the sight of him ! 
Such an odious-looking man ! I am sorry to see you with 
him every time I see you together.” 

“ I don’t think he’s so bad-looking,” apologized Tom. 

“ So he’s not — except for his eyes. But men don’t 
notice such things.” 

“Well, what can I do, then, to prove myself worthy 
of confidence?” asked Tom. 

“ I’ll not tell you now. There, please pick up my 
thimble,” folding her hands meekly in her lap. Tom 
sprawled over the floor, fished the thimble from under the 
sofa, and was handing it to her, when he stopped, and 
said quickly, — 

“ What’s that? ” 

“What?” 

“I heard a noise in the next room. Isn’t it your 
dressing-room?” 

“ Yes ; but — I heard no noise. It was your own ima- 
gination. Perhaps it was a cat on the shed. Now, you 
little goosey, come here ! Don’t be such a nervous little 
man. Was its little heart scared because it heard a tom- 
cat at the window? Now give me my thimble, and be 
good.” And she pierced him with a blue-tipped lance. 


150 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“I’ll do nothing of the sort till you tell me what I can 
do to be worthy of }*our trust.” And he held the thimble 
behind his back, poking his chin at her. 

“ That isn’t at all becoming to you,” she said. “Now, 
Mr. Johnson, — there, you see how little I know you! 
I didn’t even know your right name. Johnson isn’t, I’m 
very sure. They’re all called Johnson on the stage, all 
you naughty men. I’ll tell you what : I’ll make a bargain 
with you. You give me my thimble, and tell me your real 
name, and I’ll promise to tell you any thing you wish to 
know.” 

“Anything?” 

“Yes, unless it’s very impertinent.” Why did she look 
at him so roguishly ? 

“ I’m to give you the thimble, and tell you my name?” 

“Yes.” 

“ You’re to tell me any thing I want to know? ” 

“ Yes, an}^ thing.” 

“Can’t do it. Isn’t a fair bargain. I’m to do two 
things ; }^ou only one.” 

“ Well, but perhaps I shall tell you lots of things. 
They’ll count more than one ; that is, if you care any 
thing about me at all,” she said, with an appearance of 
great dejection. Then she suddenly looked up, took a 
Bkein of red silk from the table, which made a pretty bit 
of color against her black dress, habitually worn, and her 
general coloring of face and hair, which was “ clear and 
gold-yellow,” like Heine’s friend, saying, — 

“Now hold this for me, that’s a good man! You’ll 
not want too hard a bargain from me? ” 

Tom resigned the thimble, and put his great brown 
paws in the pretty coils of red silk ; but his clumsy fingers 
would get hopelessly tangled, and his thumb was always 
tn the way ; and the young siren bent over him, as he sat 
on a low seat before her, and removed the snarls, telling 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


151 


him that he did it on purpose. But Tom said, “Oh, no ! ” 
and looked very innocent. And he felt her warm breath 
on his face, and snarled the thread again, and again said, 
“Oh, no!” Altogether it was a funny situation for a 
philanthropist ; but I make no doubt that he tried to 
endure it as well as he could. 

“ Now tell me your name, Mr. Johnson ,” she said, 
when they were about half through, and Tom was watch- 
ing her rapid fingers. 

“ What will you give? ” 

“ Oh ! any thing, almost.” 

“ The whole name ? ” 

“Of course.” 

“ Samuel Brown.” 

“ I don’t believe a word of it ! You were never a Sam, 
you know perfectly well.” 

“ How could you tell? Well, I’ll confess : I was fool- 
ing that time. It’s Arthur Simpson.” 

“ Arthur Simpson ! Where did you invent such a name? 
You’re no Arthur, either ! Arthur is too soft for you ; 
though j r ou are pretty s — s ” — 

“ WTat do you say?” he exclaimed. But she drew 
back, and told Tom to behave ; and he did, although he 
didn’t feel at all like it. 

“ No, really, what is it? ” she asked. 

“ Thomas ” — 

“Well, why not say Tom? That’s stronger.” 

“ Tom Sampson.” 

“No, that’s too strong. You’re no Sampson! Come, 
low, you’ll never tell me!” 

“ Tom Hammersmith,” he said. 

“ No, really ? that’s very nice and strong.” 

“Why do you believe me this time?” he exclaimed, 
looking a bit discomfited. “ Did you know it ? By Jove ! 
I believe — Who could have told you? It isn’t fair!” 


152 


HAMMERSMITH : 


And the thread was fearfully tangled of a suiden ; and 
there was a pretty little melodrama of red silk and blue 
cravat, small hands, fair blooming cheek, and impertinent 
mustache ; after which came her epilogue, — 

“ O 3 7 ou naughty man, go home ! ” 


And Tom at length went — though not as one driven, 
and astonished Gimlet with his hilarity, meeting him on 
his beat towards Cambridgeport ; and, bursting into his 
own rooms, performed a war-dance, and shook Penhallow 
in his bed, howling like a dervish at him. 

Penhallow opened a sleepy eye, and growled, — 

“What in thunder’s the row? Go to bed!” which 
Tom at length did, after considerable prancing about, and 
a little private worship of a knot of red silk which he took 
from his button-hole. 


HIS HARVAKD DAYS. 


153 


CHAPTER XI. 


IN WHICH MR. TOM ALMOST SMELLS GUNPOWDER, 


** A deer with a halter around his neck cannot go where he pleaseth.” 


Saadi. 


Ovtieig yvvautbq (pap/ian* e^evpijne 7 rw 
Kanr/g’ 7 oaovrov topev uvdpuTcoig nanov. 



E are not proposing to enlarge upon this episode of 


V V Mr. Tom’s career, or to set down much of his 
harmless capering in those salad days when he hovered 
about the Joy-street court. 

Placid men of the world, grown gray in service, may 
smile at the lad’s simplicity, his easy inflammability, his 
guilelessness ; and I own that there is much that is laugh- 
able in the adorable verdancy and charming gravity of 
youthful affairs of this sort. His word for it, Tom felt 
that it was no laughing matter, as the phrase goes, at 
the time. He seemed appreciably older since this chival- 
ric mantle had fallen upon his shoulders. He moved 
about with a sense that a part had been assigned him, and 
that at last his turn to act had come. It is sad to have 
vo own, at last, that the part is mere ranting, and the fair 
Dulcinea whom we would rescue a mere designing minx, 
who has been playing us on a hook for veriest pastime. 
But it is sadder to have to own that we are incapable of 
sympathy and chivalry, and the tenderer sentiments that 
come in their train, and proud chat we are as stocks and 
stones. 

It was very pleasant, then, and seemingly much beset 


154 


HAMMER SMITH: 


with danger, for our Hammersmith free-lance to charge 
upon the unconscious metropolis (which would have been 
electrified, and would have risen to him as to a conqueror, 
he felt, if it had known how his heart was bursting with 
great yearning plans) , and to hang up his shield in the 
Joy-street court, and chirrup with the beleaguered Graci- 
ana in her third-story donjon, hung with dingy lace cur- 
tains, which were transfigured by her presence, as were 
all the other tawdry appointments of the rooms, into 
something quite wonderful and princely. How he poured 
.out his bojfish hopes and plans to her ! How he read to 
her, and quoted much unintelligible nonsense, while she 
rolled her tender, melancholy e} T es at him, and sighed. 
He argued with her on the theatrical life that she was 
leading, its trials, its hardships, its temptations, and by 
degrees drew from her an account of her griefs, substan- 
tially the same as Tufton’s version. And he walked the 
room, his anger breaking out in excited speech, declaim- 
ing against her cruel father, and tortured his brain to find 
some way of escape for her. 

“Now, don’t, Tom!” she would saj^, — it was Tom 
and Emily now, — “ remember, he’s my father. It’s very 
hard to bear ; but I must do it.” And she looked so re- 
signed and patient, and altogether captivating, as she sat 
at her work-table, stitching away at some feminine mys- 
tery, that Tom could only rave and stamp the more, 
bursting with sympathy. 

“But, confound it! There ought to be some way of 
putting an end to it ! It’s downright cruelty ! He ought 
to be shut up ! Emily, has he ever beaten you? ” 

“N-n-no; but he’s very harsh and rough with me 
sometimes. And, Tom, I don’t know what he would do, 
if he should ever catch you here. He onl}’ comes once a 
week generally, to get the money ; but he might come, 
and I don’t know what I sA uid do ! ” 


HIS HARVAltl) DAYS. 


155 


“ Oh, don’t you be alarmed ! I’m not afraid of him, or 
a hundred like him ! ” Tom would answer, with a defiant 
toss of the head natural to him, clinching his fists, and 
striding about. Once, in fact, he had nearly demolished 
a panel of the hall-door, bringing his hard knuckles down 
upon it till it cracked, and Emily started. “I’d like to 
give him a piece of my mind, and ask him what he means 
l y treating you so ! ” 

“ Now, promise me you’ll never fly out at him if he 
comes here, or have any words with him at the theatre, 
won’t you? — there’s a good boy ! ” And she pushed the 
(.air from his forehead, and kissed him. 

“ I can’t,” he said. 

“ But you must ! You have no idea how ferocious he is 
tfhen he’s mad.” 

“ Do you mean that I shall go on seeing him ill-treating 
you, and taking all your money, and never try to help 
you?” 

“ But what can you do? ” 

“ I’ll see what I can do ! ” and he fell to thinking, and 
looked very resolute. 

Lamb says that he can conceive of two persons, who 
have never seen each other, meeting for the first time, and 
instantly falling to fighting. Mr. Tom had been endowed 
by nature with no such subtle tendency to pugnacity and 
sudden enmity, and, I imagine, was as amiable a young 
fellow at this period of his life, and as free from unusual 
ebullitions of feeling, as most lads of his ardent tempera- 
ment. The first sight of Boggle the actor had raised 
no such dire longing in his heart as Lamb describes. A 
bustling sub-manager, ordering about a gang of fustian 
carpenters, and arranging stage-properties, is not ordina- 
rily considered in the light of a red flag to a bull. But 
Tom felt now that the very sight of Boggle, the tyrant- 
father, the miscreant, the villain, — witn which names he 


156 


HAMMERSMITH : 


continually showered him, — would be eno igh to rouse all 
the worst passions in him. He would fall on him at once, 
— he knew he would, — and, seizing him by the throat, 
call him to account for all his harsh treatment of his 
daughter. Such thoughts were very easy and quite natural 
to Tom, as he paced the room, or strode grandly out to> 
Cambridge, or talked sympathizingly with Tufton on the 
subject ; Tufton counselling extremest caution, but con- 
triving at the same time to add fuel to the young fellow’3 
wrath and devotion by various judicious means, while 
appearing anxious to quell his fiery spirit. 

Breathing such vows and dark intentions, the lad man- 
aged to lash himself into quite a frenzy. And exchanging 
soft speech, such as that of which we have seen a speci- 
men, Miss Emily and Tom continued to promenade the 
private pleasure-ground of sentiment above referred to, 
absorbingly happy in the present, and looking forward to 
the time when they could shut the gate entirely on odious 
parents and all obnoxious intruders. If Miss Emily 
played her part perfectly, as though she had learned it 
from the stage-book, with all the proper exits, entrances, 
asides, and so on, carefully marked and conned, Tom, on 
his side, was the least suspicious subject of all with whom 
she had tried the role before — and Tufton could have 
told you that their number was legion. Indeed, Tufton 
had their names all carefully written down in a little pri- 
vate book, with various specifications against each, the 
nature of which may be imagined as this history pro- 
ceeds. 

Yes, Air. Tom (I have his word for it) was completely 
iind engrossingly happy in these few too brief weeks. He 
6miles a cynical smile at it all now, and wonders how he 
could have been such a condemned fool. But at the time, 
while he was pouring his hot words into the little actress’s 
ears, and firing himself to the fighting-point in her behalf, 


HIS HARVAltD DAYS. 


157 


he was as completely sub mellifluo imperio to the young 
schemer (to adapt Fortescue’s phrase, quite differently 
applied) as any infatuated boy who has dangled at the 
belt of a flirt, or sighed his heart out in unappreciated 
verse. 

As he had not the innate impulse of which Lamb speaks 
to fight the casual stranger, none the more had he the 
mawkish sentimentality that idealizes every pretty face 
which one meets, and sets him spinning romances and 
wrapping himself in their folds. We shall have portrayed 
his young life thus far to no purpose, if we have not 
shown him to be quite too sensible and sturdy for that ; 
and if it shall not already 7 be seen that the stuff of which 
he was made was quite different from that of erotic Sterne, 
who declared, that, if he were in a desert, he should love 
some cypress. 

Here, however, was a romance ready made to Hammer- 
smith’s hands, waiting only for time to give the crown- 
ing stroke. Here was a pretty face, which needed no 
idealizing to account for its tender melancholy" and piteous 
grace ; and should he, Hammersmith, with his mind filled 
with classic models, and his heart still unsullied with 
evil, refuse his aid? Is there any wonder, then, that not 
many weeks of artful coquetting had passed over him, 
before he was Miss Graciana Lee’s most abject slave, 
most loyal knight perhaps we should say T ? And Miss 
Graciana, who could drive a tandem of flirtation as skil- 
fully as Tufton could manage his single bay (my lord, in- 
deed, had more weight on the lines in this case than Mr. 
Tom at first suspected) , — Miss Graciana had but little 
trouble, and certainly infinite amusement, in winding the 
boy Hammersmith about her -pretty fingers, till at length 
she saw him almost writhing under the tortures of hia 
pleasure, and enduring the lover’s dolci durezze and placid i 
repulse under her graceful whip. 


158 


HAMMERSMITH : 


To what extreme the lad’s impetuous nature might 
have carried him, and what mode of escape his interested 
scheming might have arranged, we are scarcely able to 
conjecture. That he would have acquitted himself as a 
brave and devoted Hammersmith, and shown no flinch- 
ing in the execution of his plans whatever they might 
have been, no one who knows the family temperament 
can doubt. This history might have run in quite a differ- 
ent channel, and Mr. Tom’s academic career have ter- 
minated most abruptly (like those Western rivers that 
come tumbling and booming down a canon, only to sink 
in the sand, and be lost at its mouth) , if there had not 
come a sudden check on his exuberance, in the form of an 
intrusive presence in their pleasure-ground. 


It was that season of the year when a man with an eye 
for beauty, promenading the fashionable avenues of Bos- 
ton, knows not which to admire the more, — the bursting 
buds and early bloom within the trim city areas, or the 
gorgeous raiment and splendid finery which burst into full 
flower outside the iron palings, with the rising of the 
Easter sun. In all the throng of returning worshippers 
and saunterers along sunny Beacon and Boylston and 
Tremont Streets that Sunday, there were none happier, 
and freer from care, than our friends Freemantle and Ham- 
mersmith, walking arm and arm along the gay sidewalks 
about noon, lifting their hats to friend after friend, and 
basking as well in the welcome sunshine of spring as in 
the proud consciousness of being regarded as chief orna- 
ments of their class in the neighboring university. Un- 
der all the dainty bonnets to which they bowed, however, 
covering I care not how high-bred and brilliant beauties, 
Mr. Tom saw no face, so the young rascal thought, which 
wore such an appealing tenderness and melancholy beauty 
is a certain blue-eyed little lady of whom he was think 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


159 


ing, I fear, not only to-day, but every clay and night for 
many weeks now. For shame, Mr. Tom ! to associate 
in your mind, even for an instant, thoughts of these spot- 
less maidens, these demure young worshippers, and your 
pining Dulcinea in the Joy-street court ! But pardon 
innocent Hammersmith, and permit him for a day or two 
more to idealize his young actress, and fold his chivalric 
mantle about himself and her alike ; for the denoument is 
coming fast enough, when ideal and mantle will be torn 
relentlessly away. 

It was the Monday night after this Easter Sunday. 
Cambridge had put its scholarly head on its pillow, and 
was sleeping peacefully. The round Gimlet, rolling on 
his beat, saw only here and there a light still burning, and 
encountered only a belated reveller now and then steering 
with unsteady motion collegeward. 

A hack came tearing furiously out of Boston, its lights 
bobbing up and down as the horses now galloped, and 
now trotted, under a whip constantly applied. If Gimlet 
had looked within, he would have seen his patron and 
friend Hammersmith, sitting with his hat on the back of 
his head, and an unlighted cigar crunched between his 
teeth, looking wildly into nothingness. If he could have 
followed him, he would have seen Mr. Tom putting his 
head again and again out of the hack- window, and shout- 
ing to the driver, “ For God’s sake, get on ! Never 
mind your horses ! Give them the whip ! ” and sinking 
back upon his seat again. 

The hack turns swiftly into Tufton’s street, rattling 
and echoing in the narrow thoroughfare, and stops before 
my lord’s door. 

Tom is out almost before it has stopped, hands the man 
his fare (liberally increased) , and bangs at Tufton’s door. 
The driver wheels his horses, walks them slowly off 
towards Boston and turns to look at Tom, saying to him 


m 


HAMMERSMITH : 


self, “ Young chap is in a peck of trouble, I should say 
Liberal with the coin, howsumdever: them kind most 
generally is. Get up, Susan ! get up, gal ! ” 

Jordan, blinking fearfully, appears with a candle at the 
opened door. 

“Hah, Mr. ’Ammersmith, it be you? Master ’aye ’ad 
a powerful bad ’eadache this hevening. Might hit be 
hany thing poorticular? ” 

“ Yes, yes, Jordan ! Hang his headache ! ” and Tom 
brushes past him, and runs quickly up to Tufton’s rooms. 

“What is it? Who’s there?” came in answer to 
Tom’s call. 

“It’s I, Hammersmith! Must see you, old fellow! 
Come out as soon as you can. Or shall I come in? ” 

“No, I’ll be out in a minute.” And Tufton throws on 
his dressing-gown, thrusts his feet into slippers, a smoking- 
cap on his head, and, as he gives his mustache a twirl at 
the glass, says to himself, “ So the trap is sprung, eh? ” 

He appears, yawning, and stretching out an arm. He 
starts to roll a cigarette which he has taken from his 
bureau. 

“My God, Hammersmith, you look ill! What’s the 
row? Here, take a pull of brandy. Jordan, Jordan, a 
small glass ! ” And Tom, a pitiable sight, doubled up in 
an easy-chair, with his hat still on the back of his head, 
takes the brandy, and tosses it off. 

“ It’s all up, Tufton, all up ! I’ve had a terrible time 
to-night. Her father came in on us, and ” — But Tom 
had to stop for breath in his excitement. 

“ You didn’t have a fight? ” 

“ No ! Wish to Heaven I had ! Wish he’d killed me, 
or I him ! Tufton, I’m a ruined man ! ” 

“ Pooh, pooh, man, not so bad as that ! Tell us about 
it.” But it was a long time before Tom could go on to 
explain it all, and then only with many halts, and much 
striding about the room, and glaring at Tufton. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


161 


“ In the first place, old fellow, you were right. If I 
had taken your advice, and steered clear of her, I 
shouldn’t have made such a mess of it, and such an ass 
of myself. But I couldn’t help it, God knows ! * And 
she’s worthy of every thing I can do for her, by Jove ! 
she’s worthy I say ! ” shouted Tom. 

“ Yes, yes, I hear you. Go on,” said Tufton, a little 
moved by Tom’s excited manner, and not quite knowing 
if every thing had been done according to the card, and 
if his lion-cub might not be minded to turn upon him, 
after all. 

44 Well,” said Tom, staring into vacancy as he recalled 
the scene, 44 we were sitting quietly in her rooms : I was 
just through reading something out of Herrick to her, and 
she was embroidering a handkerchief for me, bless her ! ” 
A long pause. 

44 She looked up and said, 4 Aren’t you going to read 
any more? ’ and, as she said it, her face became as white 
an marble, and she said, ‘*0 Tom! 0 Tom!’ two or 
three times, dropping her work. Jove, I shall never for- 
get it as long as I live ! I thought she must be awfully 
ill, and jumped up to catch her ; but she ran towards the 
door, saying very quickly, 4 He’s coming, he’s coming ! ’ 
— 4 Who?’ said I. 4 My father! What shall we do?’ 
and she turned towards me, and opened her arms in the 
most helpless way. I caught hold of her, and so forth, 
and told her not to be afraid ; but she trembled and shook 
so, I thought she was going to faint. 4 You must hide, 
Tom, you must go in here ; ’ and she started to open a 
closet-door. I was excited, of course, and was starting 
to go in; but I thought what a disgraceful, cowardly 
thing it would be, and I turned round, and told her I 
would do nothing of the sort. She begged me, and — 
nnd so forth. But I was bound not to be caught hiding 
in that way ; preferred a square fight by far. 


162 


HAMMEKSMITH : 


“She had just time to say, ‘Well, then, sit down 
quietly, and don’t say any thing till I explain things,’ 
when the door was thrown open with a kick, and old Bog- 
gle strode in. The old bird had been drinking fearfully, I 
could see that ; but he looked as sober as a judge, and 
scowled like a thousand devils when he saw me. 

44 4 Papa, this is Mr. Johnson,’ said Emily. 

“ 4 Mr. Johnson, ugh ! ’ growled the old fellow. 

“ 4 Yes. He’s called to see if he can borrow that fancy 
suit of yours for a masquerade in Brookline. Won’t 
you’ — 

44 1 Fancy suit be blank-blanked ! Girl, go to your 
room ! ’ he roared. 

“But she sank down on the floor, and kept saying, 
4 Please, please, father ! ’ And I couldn’t stand it an}' 
longer. I jumped up, and threw myself between them, 
6aying to him, — 

4 4 4 1 beg your pardon, sir ; but whaVs all this for? I’m 
a young man ; but I fancy I’m a gentleman, and I’ll not 
see a woman abused by anybody ! ’ 

4 4 4 Who the devil are you? You think I’m going to 
swallow all your rot? 44 Fancy suit ” ! He, he ! ’ And, 
quickly turning the key in the hall-door, he put it in his 
pocket, and said harshly to Emily, 4 Sit down, then, and 
keep quiet, if you want to see it out,’ while I could feel 
my blood turning hot and cold. I could have struck him ! 
I could have killed him ! But I got over that feeling, 
when I saw him quietly open a small mahogany chest of 
drawers near the window, and sit down, with his hand rest- 
ing in the opened drawer, fumbling with a pistol, which I 
caught sight of, and heard him put at full cock. I wasn’t 
such a fool as to exasperate him, with his Land on a pistol 
a A full-cock, although it was all I could do to sit still. Do 
you know that feeling, Tufton? Have you ever had a 
man standing guard over you in that way? ” 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


163 


“I — I — no, oh, no! It must have felt mighty tic- 
klish, eh?” 

44 I tell you it did at first. But I soon forgot it, and 
gave my whole attention to keeping as cool as possible, 
and mollifying the old boy as much as I could. He took 
out a cigar, and offered it to me. 

44 ‘Will you smoke, Mr. Johnson? It may take us 
some time to settle this little matter.’ 

44 4 No, thanks,’ said I. I was afraid of his villanous 
weeds. He lighted and puffed away in silence a moment, 
looking from Emil}' to me, and back again to Emily, grin- 
ning feebly as he did so. I couldn’t stand it, and blurted 
out, — 

44 4 Mr. Boggle, we may as well understand each other.’ 

4 4 4 Precisely, precisely, understand each other,’ said he, 
crossing his knees. 

44 4 That matter of the fancy suit was a mere fiction of 
your daughter’s,’ said I. 

44 4 Precisely, fiction, a fiction ! — Emily, he talks tol’ble 
well.’ 

44 4 But I am here, sir, because I know your cruel treat- 
ment of your daughter. I have heard it all ; and you 
have treated her shamefully — yes, sir, shamefully ! ’ And 
I could scarcely keep myself from shaking my fist in his 
face. 

4 4 4 Precisely, precisely, shamefully! That’s good! — 
Mr. Johnson says shamefully, Emily. You hear? ’ 

4 4 4 Yes, sir, shamefully. And I am here by the right 
that all gentlemen have, of protecting oppressed women 
everywhere ; and 1 ’ — 

44 4 Precisely, oppressed women ! — Emily, you hear 
him? You are an oppressed woman, Emily, devilish op- 
pressed ! ’ 

4 4 4 And as j'ou are a gentleman and a father, sir, you 
can appreciate the motive ’ — 


164 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“ ‘ Very good, very good ! Gentleman and father ! — 
You hear, Emity, I’m a gentlemap and a father ! He’s a 
gentleman and a father, Emily, he, he ! ’ Heaven forgive 
for me calling him a gentleman, Tufton ; but I thought it 
might pacify him. 

“ I can’t remember all that we said, or how long it 
took : it seemed hours then ; but I suppose it was about 
fifteen minutes. I was going on to upbraid him (I know 
it was impolitic ; but I couldn’t help it, and Emily sitting 
there so pale and frightened, begging me with looks not 
to do any thing rash) , and I was telling him that I had 
never harmed his daughter, or meant to, so help me 
Heaven ! when his whole manner changed. He said in 
a perfectly natural way, dropping his semi-maudlin 
speech, — 

“ ‘ Don’t waste your breath, young man. I suppose 
we understand each other ; and, as I’m a bit sleepy, we’ll 
get to business.’ 

“ I could have taken my oath that he was as tight as a 
lord when he came ; and he changed in a jiffy. Do you 
know I think it was all put on? Wasn’t it extraordi- 
nary? ” 

“ Yes, very,” said Tufton. “ Well? ” 

“ Well, he took out a greasy old pocket-book, fumbled 
in it, turned his back to me, scratched away with a pen, 
and handed me a paper. My God ! ” 

“ Well? ” said Tufton, blowing a ring of smoke. 

“ What do you suppose was in it? I can’t remember 
exactly : but it was like this : — 

“ ‘The undersigned hereby agrees to pay to Graham Boggle or 
order, for value received, one thousand dollars current money 
United States, in the following sums and under the following 
conditions: one hundred dollars within five days from date, the 
balance monthly in three instalments of three hundred dollar* 
each. 

« 1 Boston, April 19, 186-.’ " 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


165 


44 You didn’t sign it? ” said Tufton. 

44 I didn’t at first. I could hardly believe my senses; 
but I read it twice, and then threw it on the table. 

44 4 I have done nothing to warrant this, sir,’ said I. 
1 I’ll not sign it.’ 

4 4 Oh ! don’t be in a hurry, of course,’ he answered. 
4 One does not carry that amount about with one all the 
time, of course. Reflect a moment ! ’ 

44 4 1 appeal to you, Emily!’ I shouted. But Emily 
looked frightened ; and her father said, — 

44 4 Oh ! that doesn’t matter. It’s out of the girl’s 
hands now : it’s between us as gentlemen .’ And he smiled 
most sarcastically. 

4 4 4 I’ll have you prosecuted, sir ! ’ I shouted. 

4 4 4 It will be necessary to appear before a justice. We 
keep none in these rooms,’ he said coolly. 

4 4 4 I’ll have you branded as a scoundrel, sir ! ’ 

44 4 Perhaps so. But that will be to-morrow, or the next 
day, or the next. To-night this paper interests us more. 
But come, this has gone far enough. Your name, sir, in 
that place at once ! No Johnson, either ! ’ he added. 
4 That will not go down in this court.’ 

44 What could I do? I held out still, told him it was 
impossible, I hadn’t the money, it would ruin me, and so 
on ; and Emily added her appeals. But he was as cool as 
an iceberg, never lost his temper ; and, at last, seeing no 
relief, I signed. He put his name in the other corner, as 
a witness, folded the paper, and put it back in his book. 

44 4 And now we have the pleasure of wishing you a very 
good-evening ; haven’t we, Emily ? ’ he said, with just a 
momentary relapsing into his old tone. 4 1 shall be glad 
to receive these remittances as promptly as possible, or 
we may both be put to considerable trouble and expense ; 
and, throwing open the door, he bowed stiffly. I seized 
my hat, bowed to Emily, — poor girl! — passed him as 


166 


HAMMERSMITH : 


straight as a ramrod, and walked down stairs. 1 don’t 
know how I got out here ; but here I am, a ruined man ! ” 

“ By Jove, it is a pretty rough deal!” said Tufton. 
“ But don’t let it make you desperate. I thought it was 
a great deal worse when you first came in.” 

“ But — heavens and earth ! what am I to do? ” gasped 
Tom. “I can’t raise the money! I don’t know a man 
who can lend it me, unless yourself, my dear fellow ” — 

“ I’m exceedingly sorry, Hammersmith, 3 f ou know I am. 
But the fact is, my own exchequer is most uncomfortably 
low just now, and I have been thinking how I could raise 
the wind myself.” 

“ Then I’m a used up community ! ” said Tom. “ If 
I only had that hundred that I loaned you last month, I 
might make this first payment, and so get a little time to 
breathe, and look about me.” 

“It’s too bad!” said Tufton. “And I promise you 
I’ll help you as soon as I can. I am expecting some 
money shortly, and will pay you as soon as it comes, on 
my word.” 

“ What can I do? Can you suggest any plan? ” asked 
Tom. “ Penhallow has no money, I know: he’s always 
hard up. Freemantle is even worse off. And Goldie, 
who is the only man that’s flush at this time of year, — 1 
couldn’t ask a favor from, if I were dying ! We’ve hardly 
spoken for months.” 

“ I’ll think it over,” said Tufton. “ But, ’pon my word, 
I hardly know where to turn. Why couldn’t you write 
home? ” 

“Gad, I hadn’t thought of that! I get my money 
through my uncle’s lawyers in Boston, and don’t draw on. 
my mother. I’ll do it the first thing in the morning. But 
I’ll tell you what,” continued Tom, cheering up visibly, 
and strutting about the room, “ I don’t despair of being 
a ole to arrange it without paying ary thing to old Boggle 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


167 


at all. You know him, Tufton : can’t you intercede for 
me ? On my word, Tufton, I have done nothing in this 
whole affair that any gentleman need be ashamed of, you 
know that perfectly well. Don’t you think you might 
tell Boggle so emphatically, and get him to release that 
paper? ” 

“ I’ll try,” said Tufton. “ I’ll see him the first thing 
in the afternoon,” looking at his clock, which already 
marked the quarter to three. 

“ Thank you, thank you most heartily, my dear Tufton ! 
It’s late, and I’m keeping you from your sleep. Is your 
head better? I’m very glad. You’ll carry a note to 
Emily for me, too, won’t you? ” 

“ Mighty risky ! But I’ll do it for you, old boy,” and 
Tufton pressed warmly the hand that was extended to him. 
Tom left, and went to his room ; where, after tossing and 
mumbling wildly in his bed for a while, he fell into the 
sound sleep which comes to most healthy young creatures 
like him. 

In the morning he wrote hastily to his mother, begging 
for the hundred dollars, or as much as she could conven- 
iently spare, making all sorts of excuses and explana- 
tions, after the manner of devoted sons whose pockets are 
suddenly empty. 

In the afternoon Tufton, the kind, the obliging, the 
self-sacrificing, drove to town agreeably to appointment, 
carrying the following note, which he delivered with most 
uncommon difficulty, as he gave Tom to understand : — 

Cambridge, April 20, 183 - . 

My dearest Emily, — What a scene we had ! And how I have 
been tortured with anxiety ever since, to know if your cruel father 
has been treating you with fresh harshness since I have seen you! 
I have been wild, and beside myself with anger; but, with Tufton’ s 
kind aid, I have grown calmer, and hope to find some escape out 
of this terrible entanglement with your father. Tufton has be- 
haved splendidly, promises to do all he can; and I assure you, my 


168 


HAMMERSMITH : 


poor dear Emily, that you can trust him implicitly. He’s as true 
as steel ; and, without him, I do not know what I should do. 

I must see you, and as soon as possible, to learn how you are, 
and to see you with my own eyes. What I suffered for you while 
your villain of a father was abusing me last night, you can never 
know. I do not think of myself, but of what you must be under- 
going, exposed to that man’s renewed cruelty and most unjust 
abuse. He’s a brute, a scoundrel , and every thing that is low and 
mean, and I do not see how you can longer endure his tyranny. 
Write to me at once by Tufton, if possible, if not, through the 
mail, directing to “Massachusetts 18, Cambridge,” and tell me 
where and when I can see you : make it as soon as possible. I 
shall be consumed with anxiety till I can see you. We’ll see if 
we cannot devise some way of escaping from that odious brute ; 
and, if worst comes to worst, we’ll — but I leave every thing till I 
see you, my poor suffering, patient little Emily. Write at once. 

Always yours, 

T. H. 

On his return to his rooms, towards sundown, Tufton 
met Tom, and, with a very long face, handed him the fol- 
lowing note, a small, much scented pink note, in delicate 
feminine script : — 

Dear Sir, — Whatever feeling I may have had for you before 
has been destroyed by your most abusive and ungentlemanly words 
applied to my father in your note. No gentleman could have used 
such terms as you employed in writing to a lady of her father. I 
am disapointed in you, and now percieve that I have been thor- 
oughly mistaken in you. I can never see you again ; and if you 
dare to atempt to call on me, or speak to me, I have friends about 
me who will see that you are treated as you deserve. 

I hope, when next you try to be a friend to a lady , you will 
understand how a gentleman should act and talk under all cercum - 
stances. Yours for the last time, 

E. B. 

P. S. — Mr. Tufton has kindly promised to carry this to you. 
He will tell you that this word of mine is final, and also that my 
poor father, whom you abuse so basely, refuses most positively to 
break off the business arangement that he has made with you. 
Gentlemen generally keep their word, I believe. If you will send 
somebody to fetch away your books, and the rest of the rubish that 
you have left here, you will oblige me. 


HIS H ARY All D DAYS. 


1G9 


44 Can that be true? ” Tom said, crushing the note in 
his hand. 

44 Afraid it is,” said Tufton. 44 I’ll tell you what I 
think. The old fellow must have come in on her when 
she was reading your note, and dictated her answer. I 
know that I handed your note to her myself, and she 
seemed very pleased, only mighty sad, and red about the 
eyes ; and she told me to call in an hour. I did so. Saw 
old Boggle climbing up the street as I turned the corner 
of the court, and found her crying, when she handed me 
her note there. She said, 4 It’s all over. I can never see 
him again.’ And though I staid quite a while, expostu- 
lating with her, and taking your part, she was inflexible, 
and I could get no satisfaction : she said her father would 
kill you if he caught you near her again. She begged 
me to hand you this note, and I left.” 

44 You think, then, that she didn’t write this of her own 
free will? ” 

4 4 Exactly. I think her father must have scared her by 
threatening to shoot j^ou if she did not break with you 
entirely.” 

44 By Jove, Tufton, you are a brick ! You always 
encourage a fellow so ! ” And with more diplomatic talk 
from Tufton, who saw that Tom must be kept in good 
hope, or he might do something desperate, — leave Cam- 
bridge, jump into the river, or in some other way balk the 
pajment of the money to Boggle, — the two sat and dis- 
cussed the matter long. Tom at last left, thanking Tuf- 
ton impressively for all his trouble and kindness ; and the 
door was no sooner closed than Tufton threw himself at 
full-length on the sofa, holding his sides, and indulging in 
what passed for excessively loud laughter with his lord- 
ship : in other persons it would have been called a sub 
dued cackle. 


t 


170 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Tom had a sorry success, however, in attempting to 
prove for himself how much foundation there was for the 
hope extended in Tuf ton’s last conversation. He waylaid 
the Boggle as she came out of the theatre-door the next 
evening. 

“ Emily, may I walk with you a little way? ” 

She turned her face full towards him, and drew away a 
bit, as she said, — 

“Mr. Johnson, leave me! I don’t know you, sir! ” 
And, as Tom did not leave, she turned herself, and walked 
into the theatre. Tom waited under a distant lamp-post, 
saw her come out in a few moments on her father’s arm, 
look about just a second, and then walk off with him. 

We may leave to the imagination all that passed in the 
j T oung man’s mind as he followed them, saw them disap- 
pear in the well-known dark passage where he had cut in 
so often with such a pleasant titillation, and then took his 
way for Cambridge. 

We may only mention that he was leaning with his chin 
on the railing of the bridge, looking down into the cool, 
dark flood washing against the timbers, when Freemantle, 
Pinckney, and several other men, stretching their legs 
after a party in Boston, came upon him, and rallied him 
on his “ pensive attitude,” as they called it. He joined 
them, and walked to Cambridge. 

Quiet as Tom had been of late, the men were alarmed 
%t his dejected and forlorn air to-night, and refrained from 
the copious chaff with which any thing out of the common 
order is usually showered by easy-going college-men. 

“ Goldie was put into the ’Varsity to-day,” said Pinck 
uey, as the crowd was breaking up in the quadrangle. 
“ Did you know it, Tom? ” 

“ No,” said Tom. 

“ You ought to be there yourself too,” continued the 
ardent Pinckne}^. “They’ve got Albertson in at No. 3 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


171 


Dut he’s mighty weak for a waist oar, and you’re the very 
man to strengthen them there. Would you pull if they 
asked you? ” 

“ Let them ask me first,” said Tom, and went off to 
his rooms ; while Pinckney, full of manly tenderness and 
pity for Tom, made up his mind that he would suggest 
Tom for the ’Varsity at the very next meeting of the club, 
his own position as vice-president, and his reputation as 
an oarsman, rendering such a suggestion from him entirely 
in rule. He pulled one of the prettiest oars on the river, 
had been frequently begged to row in races and crews ; 
but a tendency to heart-disease, never apparent at other 
exercise, was aggravated by severe work in a boat, and 
he had been forbidden by his physician to take more than 
gentle single-scull paddling. 


172 


hammersmith: 


CHAPTER Xn. 


STRANGE BEHAVIOR OF MY LORD TUFTON. 

“ Who gave me the goods that went since ? 

■Who raised me the house that sank once? 

Who helped me to gold I spent since? 

Who found me in wine you drank once.” — Browning. 



OFFMAN says somewhere in his note-books, that 


J — L on the 11th of March, at eight and a half o’clock 
precisely, he was an ass. Tom now appreciated, what it 
had taken him some time to accept, that on the 19 th of 
April, at about eleven of the clock, when he signed that 
luckless paper of Boggle’s, he was the longest-eared, most 
pachydermous, of his kind. 

It is a point gained, however, when one can be brought 
to realize the long ears — which he has previously regarded 
only as picturesque objects in natural historj 7 , in nowise 
related to himself — as an actual prominent possession 
of his own, patent to the world. It is an added virtue, 
when he not only recognizes the proprietary relation, but 
takes the matter in hand, like a patient philosopher, and 
endeavors, by various reducing processes unknown to 
Banting, to diminish the unnatural growth. 

Tom felt sufficiently the ludicrous aspect of his situa- 
tion. lie appreciated perfect^ now, that Boggle and the 
daughter had conspired to extract that unhappy promise 
to pay from him ; and he was clever enough to see through 
the vulgar coquetry by which he had been led on. There 
had been a certain ordered method in the tactics, however 


HIS HAH YARD DAYS. 


173 


which puzzled him not a little. Surely Grat am Boggle, 
a third-rate actor, and Emily Boggle, second walking-lady 
of the troupe, could hardly be in the habit of luring the 
unsuspecting stranger-youth into such carefully' arranged 
pitfalls ! But who else could be plotting with them ? 
Well, he would not bother himself with the conjecture. 
He had been duped, trapped, robbed : that was enough ! 
He was not lawyer enough to doubt if his signature, thus 
obtained, were binding ; and he would hardly have dared 
put the question to his bankers, Brooks and Bates, if the 
doubt had occurred to him. 

But can any simple statement of his recognition of his 
own folly adequately express the sickening disgust, and 
self-discontent, and entire mental revolution, which came 
over him ? — he, Tom, who had pledged himself so de- 
votedly to his mother to do nothing unworthy of her or 
his father, — he to be entrapped and swindled by a couple 
of actors, to feel that he had not the penetration to see 
through the low-bred wiles and tawdry accomplishments 
of the Boggle, and, worse than that, to find himself 
pledged to pa}" a thousand dollars within a three-month, 
— a thousand dollars to come from he knew not where ! 

What should he do? where should he turn? Oh that 
his uncle, who knew the ways of the world so well, and 
could pardon youthful folly, as Tom felt sure, were only 
here ! Who else of all his friends and relatives could at 
the same time pity and pardon, and act as paymaster for 
him in this emergency ? But Mr. Gayton was not here ; 
nobody knew when he would be : and poor Tom was left, 
like so many lads in all time, to fight his own battle, and 
decide if he, or the ogre Circumstance, should win. 

It was what novelists call a rude awakening for Ham- 
mersmith, — Hammersmith, who had never before been 
brought face to face with the deceit and trickery, wiles 
and villany, of the world, in all his young life. Did he gc 


1T4 


HAMMERSMITH : 


drown himself? Did he take to drink? Did he break 
out into wild cursing of the human race in general, and 
actresses in particular ? Thank Heaven, no ! But in the 
sullen and silent Hammersmith who now went through his 
college-exercises as mechanically as clock-work (if not 
with quite its regularity) , one would hardly recognize the 
gay and dashing Tom who had been the life of supper- 
parties so short a time ago, or the earlier Tom who had 
come up to Cambridge with smug face that had never 
looked on treachery or sin, and with the ingenuous airs of 
unsullied youth. 

A ruder awakening still awaited him, however. 

The r Varsity and the entire Boat-Club had begged and 
entreated him to enter the crew, Pincknejr having started 
the movement ; but Tom would not give his decision till 
he had heard from home. If the money came, he argued, 
he might make his first payment, join the crew, secure thus 
a new channel for his thoughts and activities, and then 
trust to his devices for securing funds to pay the balance. 
If the money from home did not come, he hardly dared 
think what might happen; certainty he should be in no 
mood to go into boating, — he might have to run away in 
deepest disgrace. 

The Boat-Club, I say, had unanimousty petitioned him 
to tty his hand in the crew. His splendid pltysique was 
still as powerful as ever. The winter’s carousals, while 
they had taken him away from his exercise vastly more 
than was good for a boating-man, and had led him into 
some dubious excesses in my lord’s banquet-hall, had as 
yet no sensible effect on his superb development ; and he 
was hailed as the coming man for the ’Varsity, in spite of 
the croakings of the stricter trainers. 

The letter from home came : it was fat and soft, and 
Tom broke the seal excitedty. It was there, — a draft for 
seventy dollars; “Which is all that I can conveniently 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


175 


spare, m3’ dear Tom,” the widow wrote, 44 and I hope you 
are not living too extravagantly.” 

44 Poor mother ! ” said Tom to himself; 4 4 if she only 
knew where her mone3 T is going!” And he rushed to 
Tufton’s to announce the good news that he had raised 
most of the first instalment. Yes, if the good mothei 
could onty have known where her money was going ! 

So by his mother’s happy aid, and by borrowing of one 
or two classmates, Tom made up the hundred dollars, and 
sent it in by Tufton, who said he was going to town to 
see about some new engravings. In the evening came a 
receipt from Graham Boggle for 44 one hundred dollars 
on account.” 

The ver3 T next afternoon, with a fighter heart than he 
had carried for many a day, Tom took his seat in the 
’Varsity boat at No. 3 , and had his first pull with the 
crew. It was months since he had had a good square 
pull; and with implacable McGregor in the bows, and 
Miles pulling a slashing stroke of forty to the minute, 
our Tom was put through a severe ordeal on this first 
practice-trip of his. The3 T pulled nearl) T to Braman’s, 
rested on their oars a moment (McGregor criticising the 
crew) , and then came swinging back. The} 7 shot through 
the bridge without a scratch, caught up a stroke or two 
a3 the} 7 neared the boat-houses, and came tearing up at 
racing speed. 

44 By Jove, here she springs! There’s plenty of fife in 
her now ! ” said Pinckney to the crowd in waiting, as the 
boat came in sight above the upper bridge. 

The crowd cheers. McGregor turns his head to take liis 
bearings, and, as he nears the houses, says sharply, 44 Way 
enough ! ’’and then, 44 Hold her, Three and Four ! ” They 
step out of the boat. The fellows gather about, and com- 
pliment them on their improved form, looking admiringlj 
at Tom’s glowing muscles, and plucky, determined air. 


176 


hammersmith: 


But nobody in all the throng and in all the crew knew, 
that when Tom was pulling away as if he would pull his 
heart out, and laying on all his strength, with his eyes 
glued to Goldie’s back in front of him, he was saying to 
himself with every stroke, “Con found her! confound 
hei I ” or, “ Hang him ! hang him ! ” But such was the 
fact, believe it who will ; and he is not the first man, I 
conceive, who has vented his feelings in like fashion at 
some sturdy pastime. He took a plunge in the river with 
others of the crew, dressed in one of the narrow little 
dressing-rooms of those da}^, and, just as the sun was 
setting over Mount Auburn, went up to dinner, feeling 
like a new man. 

It was but a few evenings after this first practice of 
Tom’s with the ’Varsity, that, returning to his rooms after 
dining, he found under his door the following note, super- 
scribed to himself : — 

De A n Hammersmith, — If you have nothing particular on 
hand tliis evening, will you not come to my rooms at nine ? I 
have something especially important to say to you, which affects 
you very nearly. I ask you to come to me instead of offering to 
meet you in your own quarters, as I think we shall be much less 
liable to interruption over here. 

Do not fail to come, if you can possibly spare the time. You 
will regret it if you do not. Yours, &c., 

John Breese. 

Friday, May 13. 

“Hang it! Why are fellows always meddling in my 
affairs, I should like to know ! Another lecture a la 
Goldie, I suppose. Appears to me I have plenty of peo- 
ple overseeing me. But what can this be ? Breese is not 
a man to waste time or words on a cock-and-bull story : 
that I know perfectly well,” communed Hammersmith 
with himself. 

When he went over to Breese ’s n>om, at nine, his door 
was open. Knocking, and receiving no answer, he walked 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


177 


in, and sat down, saying to himself that Bree3e had proba- 
ably stepped out for a moment. 

A lexicon lay open on the table, a Plautus upon the 
lexicon, and several books scattered about. Tom took 
up one mechanically, and glanced at its title, 44 Thoughts 
of the Emperor M. Aurelius Antoninus/ * Turning its 
leaves absent-mindedly, he found passage after passage 
marked, some with a single line, some with two and even 
three, — the favorite apothegms of the reader. Breese 
not coming, Tom read here and there, and was soon busi- 
ly engaged in following from one marked passage to an- 
other, so apt they appeared to his present frame of mind. 

44 If thou workest at that which is before thee, following right 
reason seriously, vigorously, calmly, without allowing any thing 
else to distract thee, hut keeping thy divine part pure, as if thou 
shouldest be bound to give it hack immediately; if thou holdest 
to this, expecting nothing, fearing nothing, but satisfied with thy 
present activity according to nature, and with heroic truth in 
every word and sound which thou utterest, thou wilt live happy. 
And there is no man who is able to prevent this.” 

44 It is a ridiculous thing for a man not to fly from his own bad- 
ness, which is indeed possible, but to fly from other men’s bad- 
ness, which is impossible.” 

44 If thou art pained by any external thing, it is not this thing 
that disturbs thee, but thy own judgment about it. And it is in 
thy power to wipe out this judgment now.” 

“A cucumber is bitter: throw it away. There are briers in 
the road : turn aside from them. This is enough. Do not add, 
And why were such things made in the world?’ ” 

This passage Tom read over and over, not at first fully 
comprehending its force, and then dwelling on it for its 
epigrammatic pointing of the moral. 

“He who does wrong does wrong against himself. He who 
acts unjustly acts unjustly to himself, because he makes himself 
bad.” 

44 No longer talk about the kind of man that a good man ought 
o be, but be such.” 

“ What is my ruling faculty now to me ? and of what nature 
am I now making it ? and for what purpose am I now using it ? ” 


178 


HAMMERSMITH : 


These, and many other sentenc.es like them, which seemed 
to have been especially set apart for his present mood, 
Tom was reading absorbedly when Breese came in. 

“Beg pardon, Hammersmith. I stepped across to 
Donaldson’s to return a book that I had borrowed.” 

“ Don’t speak of it. I’ve been immensely interested in 
this book here,” said Tom. 

“ What, Marcus Aurelius ? Heaven bless him! He’s 
a stand-by that I never am tired of leaning upon when I 
feel a little down.” 

“ You don’t mean to say that men like you ever feel 
down or discouraged? ” asked Tom. 

“Why, of course. I suppose eve^body has a little 
letting-down now and then : it’s probably good for us. 
But I am very seldom so down with the blues, that a good 
constitutional, or a few pages of my Marcus Aurelius, or 
other vade-mecums , will not bring me up again.” 

“ Well, I must own I’m surprised to hear it. If there’s 
a man in the class that I thought was always in tip-top 
working-order, body and mind, it’s you, Breese. But I 
can’t say I’m sorry to hear that you are subject to the 
same ups and downs as the rest of us fellows. I certainly 
always thought you were a law unto yourself, and had no 
need of outside aid.” 

“You see you were vastly mistaken,” said Breese. 
“No one can live at the top of his bent all the time, or 
keep his wings going continually, however the wind blows ; 
though I conceive that it is our duty to do so as much as 
possible, or else give up at once, and creep about on the 
earth, like blind animals. But I did not ask you up here 
to listen to a lecture on Marcus Aurelius and morality 
generally : you probabty had enough of my style of ha- 
ranguing, last year, in ‘ The Forum ’ of blessed memory,” 
he added with a serio-comic air. 

Tom settled into his chair, and took out a cigar. Breesi 
rould not smoke. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


179 


“ Perhaps I ought to apologize, Hammersmith, for say- 
ing any thing at all in an affair which does not concern 
me immediately, except as your friend/ ’ began Breese. 

“ That depends upon what the affair is,” said Tom. 
hardening a little, and confirmed in his expectation of a 
Goldie tirade. 

“ But if the angel Gabriel were to come down and give 
you important news about a man in whom you were inter- 
ested, you would not think that you had a right to refuse 
telling it to him, and helping him if possible, would you? ” 
Breese asked. 

“ You don’t mean that that’s the kind of company you 
entertain here along with Marcus Aurelius and the rest ! ” 
“Not exactly — quite a different kind of bird ! I think 
you will agree with me when you hear my news.” 

“ Well,” said Tom, “ fire ahead.” 

“You know perfectly well, Hammersmith,” Breese 
went on, “ that every thing a man does in Cambridge or 
Boston, or anywhere about here, — in fact, many a thing 
that he doesn’t do, — is bruited about in college sooner or 
later, and that we all know pretty well what our neighbors 
are busy about, if they are only coloring meerschaums. 
So you will not be surprised to learn that even men like 
myself are tolerably well informed about your life for the 
past few months, and all your ” — 

“Well,” said Tom, “ what of that? ” 

“ We’ll let that pass,” continued Breese. “ I was 
only mentioning it by way of preface, that you might 
know I had some little grains of information on a certain 
matter, even before the angel Gabriel flapped down upon 
me. Yesterday afternoon,” and Breese’ s brow clouded, 
“ I received a very sad letter from home. I need not re- 
fer to it, it is neither here nor there ; but I did what I 
have never done yet in college, — I cut afternoon recitation 
and dinner alike, and staid here in my rooms writing.” 


L80 


HAMMERSMITH : 


He paused a moment, as though the recollection were 
painful to him. “I had written for several hours, read 
a bit, and about ten o’clock went down to Kent’s for a 
little supper : I felt faint from my unusual fasting. I had 
finished my supper, and must have been in the place some 
time, re-reading my letter, and resting on my elbow, when 
somebody came into the next stall.” (The students’ fa- 
vorite restaurant of the day was this primitive place of 
Kent’s, with a number of narrow stalls ranged against 
the wall.) 

“ I certainly had no thought of eaves-dropping : I hope 
I am not given to it. I should have gotten up and left 
immediately, for the interruption had recalled me to my- 
self ; but I was attracted by hearing your name, accom- 
panied with an oath, almost directly on their entering. 
There were two men as I now made out. Hammersmith, 
I hope the Lord will pardon me for staying and listening 
to them as they talked ; and I know that you will, when 
I tell you what I heard. Did you know that there was 
a plot on foot to ruin you? ” 

“ Is that all your news? ” asked Tom. 

“ Oh ! I do not refer to Boggle and his daughter : every- 
body knows about that. But did it ever occur to you 
that there was somebody else connected with them in the 
plot, managing the wires? ” 

“Well, if it has occurred to me, what then? ” 

“ Only this : I can supply the missing link. The two 
men went on talking, sometimes in such low tones that 
I could not hear a word distinctly, but generally so that I 
could easily distinguish what they were saying. I heard 
one called ‘ Crosby ’ again and again. He seemed to talk 
the less of the two ; and I’ve no idea who he can be : I 
never heard of him about here before. The other name 
I could not for a long while catch. It seemed a monosyl- 
lable, and was spoken very indistinctly. But presently J 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


181 


heard that it was 4 Tuf,’ and soon after recognized the 
whole, 4 Tufton.’ I surely justified myself, in my own 
conscience at any rate, in staying to listen, when I learned 
that a man with whom I see you continually was telling 
your most private affairs to a stranger, cursing you now 
and then (for what I could not make out at first) , and 
telling the man Crosby how you have been led on and on, 
with a great deal of difficulty, to — you know what ! ” 

44 Pooh ! ” said Hammersmith : “ you must be mistaken. 
I tell you the thing is impossible. You must have mis- 
taken the names. Tufton would never behave so shab- 
bily to me.” 

“ Wait till you hear all. .Crosby asked how it was 
managed, and if you were a hard bird to catch. And, on 
my word, Tufton told him the whole story, from the very 
first night that you went on the stage with him, — 4 The 
Emerald Grotto/ I think he called the play. If you 
doubt it, I can tell you many things that you will remem- 
ber as having happened, probably.’ ’ 

44 No, no, go on ! ” said Hammersmith, excited now, and 
listening eagerly. 

4 4 Tufton told him all this ; how you were at last caught 
by old Boggle, made to sign the paper, and then came 
tearing out to Cambridge in a hack. . They were intensely 
amused at this ; and I could hear one of them chuckling tc 
himself, while the other laughed heartily. Crosby asked, 
with an oath, how j t ou were off, whether you bled easily, 
•md so on. Tufton answered, with a string of equally 
polite words, that he had been most confoundedly mis- 
taken in you ; that he had taken you for a 4 fearful swell/ 
as he called you, but that he had not been able to get 
more than a single hundred out of you, and you were 
scared to death about the payment of the thousand dol- 
lars. And now, if you want to be satisfied that Tufton 
has been trying to ruin you utterly and completely, though 


182 


HAMMERSMITH * 


most slyly, let me tell you that Crosby asked, in quite low 
tones, c What division are you going to make, Tuf? ’ And 
Tufton answered, c Half and half: couldn’t make a better 
divy. I get half, Boggle and Emily half. With what I 
have out of Fennex, I think we shall have enough for our 
passage-money, at any rate.’ They talked a long while, 
discussed some matters apparently relating to parties in 
New York, as far as I could learn, — and of about the 
same character as this affair of yours too, — and at last 
got up and left. If I had needed any confirmation of the 
names, I had it ; for I saw through my curtains the elegant 
Tufton paying his shot at the counter, and introducing his 
friend to Kent, — ‘ My friend Crosby, Kent,’ — and they 
shook hands, Kent proffering a cigar. I waited till they 
were some minutes gone, Kent meanwhile being relieved 
by his boy, and then came out. 

6 1 1 should have sent you word the first thing this morn- 
ing, if I had not questioned in my mind whether I was 
called upon to meddle in another man’s affairs. I have 
been debating this since morning, rather inclining to be- 
lieve that I had best leave it alone ; but, as I happen to 
know that Tufton has been preparing all day to leave 
Cambridge, I thought I must certainly tell you to-night. 
The shower came up this afternoon, and prevented your 
rowing ; so that I could not see you at the boat-houses, 
and left my note in your room.” 

Tom had been stalking and fuming about the room dur- 
ing this recital, much as he had been doing not so many 
weeks before in a certain little court in Boston, — and this 
is the sequel ! This the substitute for that rosy pleasure- 
ground up the three flights of stairs ! 

“ Breese, I tell you that this all seems like the poorest 
invention and moonshine. You will pardon my saying so, 
when I say in the same breath, that I know you are not 
the man to lend yourself to any nonsense, or to believe 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


183 


a harum-scarum story without foundation. If it is true, I 
shall thank you from the bottom of m3* heart. You will, 
of course, believe that I wish to sift the thing for myself 
If it is not true, I thank 3*ou equally for your kindness, as 
I know it is proffered from the best of motives. Good- 
by.” And he put out his hand. 

“ Where are you going? ” asked Breese. 

“ To Tufton’s, of course, to charge him with this.” 

“ You’ll let me go? ” asked Breese. 

“ Certainty,” said Tom, “if 3*ou wish. It may be bet- 
ter.” And, taking an umbrella, the two sallied out in the 
drizzling rain, arm in arm, for Tufton’s. Arm in arm, the 
man who had for months been leading the gayest and free- 
est life in Cambridge, and the man who had been plodding 
the most like an ideal student, scorning self-indulgence, 
polishing his buckler of scholarship in ever}" possible way, 
and girding himself with all good resolutions religiously 
kept, and yet not so much of an anchorite, or so re- 
moved from sympathy with his fellows, but that he could 
stir himself to do a good turn to Hammersmith here, who 
had barely spoken to him during the whole year, and go 
with him to beard the villain Tufton in his den. 

It had been raining since noon, now a downright pour- 
ing shower, now an intermittent mizzle, — one of those 
variant days of early summer, when the exceeding beaut}" 
of the morning changes to later cloudiness and showers, 
as though Nature did not quite know whether to laugh or 
be sad over her own loveliness and her myriad budding 
charms, until, like a beautiful petulant child, she ends 
with tears and gleams of sunshine at once. 

Tom and Breese knock at Tufton’s rooms : no answer. 
They push open his parlor-door and go in. The man 
Jordan is asleep in a window-seat. They pull him, and 
wake him to a maudlin consciousness. He has been in- 
dulging in a solitary re^el, for which he has abunlant 


184 


HAMMERSMITH : 


precedent in the late occupant’s career, and has been 
dreaming of the fine things that he will buy unto himself 
when Tufton shall send him his salary from New York, 
— easily-persuaded Jordan, happy in your fuddled hopes ! 

Tufton is gone, — left for New York early in the after- 
noon, — two trunks, all his personal effects, most of his 
ornaments and pictures, little else. So much Tom learns 
by boozy extracts from the grinning Jordan, wooing 
temporary bliss, and by personal investigation of the 
premises. 

Tufton is gone, stolen off, like a thief in the night, 
under protecting cloudiness, carrying his diplomacy and 
his villany to some outer limbo, where we need not follow 
him ; carrying, also, a bundle of unreceipted bills from 
divers Cambridge and Boston tradesmen who will be seen 
to-morrow sorrowfully re-appropriating such of their bor- 
rowed finery as they can lay hands on ; carrying, as well, 
a pot of Tom’s money, not large, to be sure, but likely 
to be increased by further remittances from the capitalist 
Boggle, if Tom shall not succeed in wresting his note 
from the hands of the swindling actor. 

And yet, with all this load that Tufton was carrying off, 
increased by the maledictions and evil prognostics of his 
late associates (which followed him in a black brood) , there 
was something else in his caravan which cost him vastly 
more for transportation, and yet was infinitely pleasanter 
to convoy than the appurtenances mentioned, — the black, 
battered trunks, unreceipted bills, and boxes of knick- 
knacks. 

For, b} r the next day at noon, it was known that Tufton 
• — the dainty, the master of feasts, and worshipper of all 
that is delicate and refined — had left for New York with a 
j'oung party passing by the name of Miss Emily Boggle or 
Miss Graciana Lee indifferently in these parts, but gifted 
with a variety of aliases , which she assumed and laid aside 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


185 


by my lord’s orders in the different divisions of the globe 
where they starred. They were gone, not to be heard 
from for many long months ; and Cambridge hummed 
with the rumors and counter-rumors, the winged and 
seven-leagued reports, the exaggerations, suspicions, con- 
jectures, which the affair created, and which all revolved 
about an unhappy central figure now temporarily reduced 
to stony despair. 

u How does he take it? ” asked Albemarle in Goldie’s 
rooms, several evenings after Tufton’s flight. 

“ Lord Harry, but he’s mightily cut up ! ” said Penhal- 
low, Hammersmith’s chum. “It’s really pitiable to see 
the poor fellow mooning about the room, trying to stmty, 
and every now and then slamming his books down, and 
striding about. He gets up in the night, too, and sits at 
the window, looking out for a whole hour together some- 
times, though he would brain me if he knew I told an} r - 
body of it. But I’m really alarmed about him.” 

“ Serves him right,” said Ladbroke, “for putting on 
such airs as he does. He isn’t such a devilish shrewd 
fellow, after all. Catch me lending my money to Tufton, 
or being gulled by an actress ! ” 

“Can’t we do any thing to cheer him up?” asked 
Pinckney. 

“Hardly know what,” put in Goldie, “he’s so con- 
foundedly touchy ! I can’t do any thing ; that’s certain. 
We’ve hardly had a cordial talk for a whole year. I never 
knew a man to put his whole soul into any thing, in my 
life, the way he puts all his into rowing, though. Jove, 
how he pulls ! I can feel the boat leap now ; so different 
from when Albertson was in ! And when he reaches for- 
ward, and lays on to the beginning of the stroke, I can 
tear him breathing like a young giant right behind me.” 

“ That’s the worst part of it,” said McGregor. “ He 11 


186 


HAMMERSMITH: 


never last till Worcester, if be works so like thunder now 
I tell you a man can’t get on in rowing unless his mind’s 
as clear as a bell. And Hammersmith is in a continual 
worry, anybody can see.” 

4 4 Why can’t you talk to him ? ’ ’ asked Goldie. 4 4 You’ve 
more of a right than any of us, as bow.” 

44 Haven’t I tallied to him ! ” said McGregor. 

44 What did he saj^? ” asked several men. 

“Say! What do you suppose he would say? You 
know his spirit. I told him as politely as I could, one 
da} r , that I was sorry to hear of his trouble. We were 
dressing in the boat-houses ; and he threw down his towel, 
and said, 4 See here, Mac : I’ve no objection to your 
thinking what you please of me ; but you will particularly 
oblige me by keeping your thoughts to yourself. I don’t 
want anybody’s sympathy. ’ ” 

44 That was surly enough, anyway,” said Tilbury, whose 
father had amassed an immense fortune in carriage- 
malting, and had sent up the first Tilbiny of the line to 
receive a little university varnish. 

44 1 told him, another day, that, as we were drawing on 
in the term, I should expect him to keep up his training 
with the rest of the crew, and observe the crew rules about 
hours of retiring, and so on. He merely nodded, and 
walked off. Then I heard of his being in town very late 
night before last, and expostulated with him, — as I have 
a right to do, by Jove ! and as I mean to do by all of 
you, or 3’ou can get another bow. He turned on me like a 
flash, and said, 4 If j t ou don’t wish me in the boat, you are 
quite at liberty to fill my place : I put my resignation in 
your hands, to be acted on whenever you see fit.’ I told 
him I didn’t mean any thing of that sort. 4 Don’t I do 
my work as well as the rest of them? ’ he asked. 4 Don’t 
I keep up my side of the boat?’ — 4 Certainty,’ I said* 
4 you pull like a Trojan. But, Hammersmith, ycu can’ * 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


187 


keep it up, you can’t keep it up, if you don’t train as 
carefully as the rest. You’ll go all to pieces some day, 
I’m afraid, just when we want to call on you for your best 
work.’ — ‘Don’t you borrow any trouble on that score,’ 
be added. ‘I’ll be on hand for any work you want of 
me : only I think it’s a bit mean to go about spying into 
a man’s private habits, — just when he goes to bed, how 
many times he winks during the daj^, and so on. I’ll do 
my share of the pulling : you need not be afraid of that. 
When I find I can’t, I’ll let you know.’ What more could 
Isay? He’s too valuable a man to lose: I don’t know 
what we should do without him ; and he’s as sensitive as 
a girl about being spoken to.” 

“ Some of the girls he’s been in the habit of speaking 
to are not especially famed for their sensitiveness, I should 
say,” chimed in Ladbroke. 

. “ Come, Ladbroke, why are you alwa}’S picking at 
Hammersmith in this way? ” said Pinckney. “ Striking a 
man when he’s down is hardly the thing for gentlemen, 
— where / live, at least.” 

“Hang him ! He’s always treating a fellow as though 
he were a prince, and could order us about as he chose,” 
answered Ladbroke. 

“I don’t think so, at all,” said Penhallow. “He’s 
mighty high-strung and impetuous ; but I think he minds 
his own business as well as most people.” 

“ If you mean me, I beg you to recall the expression,” 
said Ladbroke. “ I flatter myself I know what my own 
business is as well as the next man ! ” 

“ I mentioned no names, and I meant no offence. If 
the shoe fits, let it go on. I don’t think it is very good 
form, though, to say things behind a man’s back that 
you would not dare to say before his face.” 

“That’s so ! ” said Pinckney. “ And I wish some of ua 
fellows could do something to help him out of his troubles. 
'-How much does he owe. Pen? ” 


183 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“ 1 can’t say exactly Several thousands, I’m afraid. 
He never would tell me, though I’ve hinted that I was 
ready to help him with my indorsement, if he wanted to 
raise the wind.” 

“Fennex was badly bit last year, wasn’t he?” asked 
Albemarle. 

“Yes, but never knew that Tufton was at the bottom 
of it, any more than Hammersmith did. He hasn’t paid 
up every thing yet, I believe.” 

“Why, you don’t mean that Hammersmith and Fen- 
nex are going to pay old Boggle any thing more, now 
that they know it was a put-up job? ” asked somebody. 

“I don’t know about Fennex,” returned Penhallow ; 
“but Tom, I believe, hasn’t made up his mind whether 
he has a right to go back of his signature, even if he has 
been taken in. I know he went in to see some lawyers 
about the question to-day.” 

“What a jackass!” said Ladbroke. “To think of 
pa^dng a cent in such a scrape ! ” 

“All I can say,” said McGregor, “is, that, if we 
lose that man, I don’t know what we shall do at Worces- 
ter. I know nobody to take his place in the waist, and 
I’ve scoured the college. For his weight, he is the most 
powerful oar we have up here ; and his style is something 
only inferior to Miles’s : perhaps he feathers a little too 
high for beauty, but that is easily overcome. I have the 
greatest admiration and sympathy for the fellow ; and it’s 
almost enough to make a man cry to see him working like 
a horse in the boat, never opening his head to say a word, 
and going off as quiet as a churclij-ard from the boat- 
houses, when we’re landed.” 


“ George dear, what are all these frightful stories I 
hear about Mr. Hammersmith?” asked Ellen Darb} 7 of 
her cousin Goldie, about a week after my Lord Tufton had 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


189 


vanished into outer darkness. They were sitting under 
the gaslight in the Darbys’ parlor. 

44 Oh ! nothing in particular,” said Goldie. 44 He’s all 
right.” 

44 Now, you need not attempt to satisfy me in that way, 
George. I know he is not all right.” 

44 Ho, ho ! what’s this ! How do you know it, if you 
please, Miss Omniscience? ” And Goldie threw down a 
copy of 44 Punch,” over which he was s mili ng, and turned 
towards his cousin. She put into her lap a book that she 
•had been pretending to read, and said, with a nonchalant 
air, — 

44 Why, how can I help knowing it? Who doesn’t know 
it? I don’t know just what it all is ; but I keep hearing 
the most horrible insinuations wherever I go. Has he 
really had such a fearful time, George? ” 

44 How do I know? I have enough to do without both- 
ering myself about other people’s affairs, Heaven kr jws ! ” 

44 That’s all very fine. But you are not as ignorant as 
you seem, I know perfectly well, you horrid sophomore ! 
If there ever was a disagreeable, conceited, ridiculous 
set of men, it is you sophomores ! And the way you 
stand up for each other is something marvellous. It is 
your only redeeming quality. I don’t believe you would 
acknowledge it, if one of your class should commit a 
murder, or steal somebody’s money, or do any thing else 
that’s frightful.” 

44 No, I don’t think we would,” said Goldie merrily. 
44 We would keep on associating with him just the same, 
&nd sharpen his knives for him, and let him pick our 
pockets whenever he chose ; and when he became too bad 
—why, we would bring him round to our cousins, let them 
convert him, and send him on his way rejoicing.” 

• 4 You’re as cross as you can be, George, and I don’t 
understand at all what you mean ! I don c want to con- 
vert anybody. Who is there to be convert 3d? ” 


190 


HAMMERSMITH: 


44 Oil, nobody ! But wliat have you heard about Ham 
mersmith? ” 

“Oh! I’ve heard nothing. I was only joking, of 
course,” and she began to read. But Goldie — who waa 
a favorite cousin, and as plucky as favorite cousins ought 
always to be — came over to her, and entered a pleading 
protest, as if he were the humblest sophomore of hi3 
class ; and Ellen said that he was the most provoking fel- 
low she had ever known. 

44 Of course I am ! ” said Goldie, the provoker. “You 
never knew a fellow like me before, — first in war, first in 
peace, first in the hearts of his country’s cousins ! ” 

“ I’m sorry for the cousins,” said Ellen, with mock 
gravity. “ But, George dear, what is it all? ” 

“AH what?” 

“ All this about Mr. Hammersmith.” 

“Appears to me you are a good deal interested in 
Hammersmith,” said Goldie. “ Do you waste your sym- 
pathy on all of ns fellows when we’re in a tight place? 
If so, I shall go off instanter and kill a 4 goody.’ ” 

“ Please be serious for one moment, George ! ” 

4 4 1 have had no thought of any thing else since I was 
born. When does the sermon begin?” And Goldie 
folded his arms resignedly. 

44 You’re horrid, and I’ll have nothing more to say to 
you ! ” But she could not read 44 Jane Eyre,” with Gol- 
die peeping over the edge of her book in mockery of great 
grief ; and presently she laid the book down, and leaned 
her head on her hand. 

“Hammersmith! Fresh Pond ! Tid-de-um-dum-dum ! ” 
said Goldie, drumming an accompaniment to his badinage 
on the centre-table, and looking quizzingly at the fair, 
drooping head. 

44 George, what do you mean? You have no right to 
talk so ! You know it ! ” And with a fine feminine rage 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


191 


she added, “If I feel a special interest in Mr. Hammer- 
smith’s college career, is it wonderful? Is it wonderful, 
when you reflect that he saved n^ life once, and has never 
done any thing to make me lose my respect for him? ” 

But the quizzing drummer only continued his “ Tid-de- 
um-dum-dum ! Tid-de-um-dum-dum ! ” as regular as a 
metronome, marking time with his fingers. 

“You are perfectly horrid, George ! I never saw you 
so before. What is the matter? If you think I am 
ashamed to confess that I am interested to have Mr. 
Hammersmith succeed, and go on through college 
smoothly, you are infinitely mistaken. If you are such a 
silly boy as to imagine any thing else, you are still more 
at fault. I believe you are the hardest-hearted sopho- 
more in your class, — and that is saying a great deal, — 
for I know Mr. Hammersmith is having a fearful time, 
and I hear , though I cannot believe it, that my cousin 
George Goldie is not doing what he can to help him.” 

The drumming stopped. 

“ Ellen, what do you mean? ” 

“ Oh ! nothing in particular. I’m all right ! ” Roguish- 
ness personified ! 

“ But I insist,” said Goldie. 

“ Ah, you insist, Mr. Czar ! ” 

“ Ellen, what is all this nonsense? ” 

“A little more careful in your choice of words, if you 
please.” 

“ Please, what is it? ” 

“What is what?” 

“ All this that you say of Hammersmith and me.” 

“ Seems to me you are considerably interested :n Mr. 
Hammersmith,” retorted Miss Darby. 

“Come, come, Ellen, I apologize. Don’t be too hard 
on a fellow ! What is it ? Has he been complaining to 
you of my coldness? ” 


192 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“Who? Mr. Hammersmith! What do you think he 
is made of ? Mr. Hammersmith complain to me of you / 
Why, George, you must be ill ! ” 

44 Has he been here lately?” 

“Not for weeks. I have hardly seen him for weeks: 
so you may be re-assured on that point. He took me out, 
as you may remember, at the Lyceum 4 German ’ two 
months ago, and I occasionally see him at church with 
Mr. Fayerweather. But I have hardly seen him, even in 
the street, for weeks now. Oh, yes ! I did see him, only 
two days ago, coming out of Church Street ; but he bowed 
very coldly, pulled his hat over his eyes, and went across 
to the quadrangle. He looked very sad.” 

“ Ellen, what do you know about his affairs? ” 

“ Oh ! very little, of course.” 

“ What do you want me to tell you? ” 

“ Nothing whatever. George, I will relieve your mind 
on the subject. I know enough afready ; and I have my 
own opinion of him, and of several other people as 
well.” 

“ But don’t you want me to tell you more about him? ” 
asked Goldie. 

“ I do not wish to hear another word about his affairs. 
I have learned a good deal from your manner in the last 
five minutes, though you have not been over-communi- 
cative.” 

“ Girls are the most extraordinary creatures under the 
sun, ’pon my word!” said Goldie, beaten at his own 
game of provocation, and looking full of wonder at his 
cousin. 44 1 believe they know every thing ! ” 

“ There you are too complimentary. They don’t know 
ever} 7 thing, and they do not wish to know every thing. 
But you cannot suppose that two such overpowering ge- 
niuses as Mr. George Goldie and Mr. Thomas Hammer 
smith can have a quarrel lasting for over a twelvemonth, 
and their admiring cousins and friends not know it !” 


HIS HAEVAED DAYS. 


193 


“ We’ve had no quarrel/’ urged Goldie. 

“ Or that Mr. Tom Hammersmith can make such 
delightful acquaintances as Mr. Guy Tufton, and others 
needless to mention, and yet keep Cambridge sewing- 
societies, and the world in general, in ignorance of the 
fact ! ” 

“ They do know every thing,” said Goldie. 

“ And if Mr. Tom Hammersmith is having a fearful 
time, and needs all the help and sympathy possible, and 
men like Mr. George Goldie, who know thoroughly the 
facts of the case, and how he has been deceived and ill- 
treated, hold aloof, and let him fight it out alone, can 
you suppose that the news does not, sooner or later, reach 
even the provincial Cambridge girls, as you are pleased to 
call us? ” 

“ Well, if you realty want to discuss the matter, Ellen, 
I’m willing. The fact is — and you know it well enough 
— that Hammersmith wants no sympathy, allows nobody 
to speak of his troubles, and is just the kind of a fellow to 
prefer to fight his own battles, to use your expression.” 

“I’ve no doubt of it. No manly young man wants 
to have idle pity, which is almost always another name 
for meddling curiosity ; or wishes gossip, or a stranger’s 
interest, wasted upon him. But you are his friend, 
George, or were ; and I am very much mistaken in the 
man and his character, if he does not feel your desertion 
more than all the misery that he is evidently undergoing, 
thanks to Mr. Tufton ! ” 

“ I don’t think he minds it a bit.” 

‘ ‘ Then I must inform you that you are very much mis- 
taken. I have reasons to know that Mr. Hammersmith 
is especially despondent because just such men as you, 
who ought to try to cheer him up, if nothing more, keep 
away from him.” 

“ But what would you have me do? I warned him long 


194 


HAMMERSMITH: 


ago wliat he might expect, if he trained with Tuftou and 
his crowd.” 

“ What if he were young and inexperienced, and 
thought you might exaggerate the danger? ” 

“ Then he must take the consequences. He has made 
his bed, and he must he in it.” 

“ Is that the proper way of looking at it? Would you 
have liked him any better if he had taken your advice at 
once, and said, ‘ My dear fellow ’ (as you alwa} T s call each 
other), ‘you are right. Tufton is an awful bad fellow. 
He’s very dangerous company ; and I promise you that 
I’ll never darken his doors again, or speak to him when we 
meet’ ? Wouldn’t you have thought him a pretty speci- 
men of a weakling to have given in like that ? And can’t 
you appreciate how easy it was for him to be led astray, 
and how novel and alluring all this life must have been to 
him at first? You remember his uncle, Mr. Hammer- 
smith, telling my father how carefully he had been kept 
at home, and in what seclusion ; and how he feared, that, 
if he had his head too much, he might run away with him- 
self, — I think it was some such expression that he used. 
If he had been at Exeter, as you have, dear George, 
he might have known men better, and not have been so 
easily blinded.” 

“ May I say tid-de-um-dum just once ?” interposed 
Goldie prankishly. 

“ No, not once. You are very silly. And I do not 
behove you care a straw about Mr. Hammersmith, or ever 
did.” 

“Now, see here, Ellen, all you say is very true, very 
true indeed ; and I will not deny that Hammersmith is 
having a fearful time, as you say. But what would you 
have me do? I can’t go down and lick the dust at his 
feet.” 

“Not at all ! You don’t suppose I want you to. But 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


195 


would it be such a very difficult thing to conquer your tre- 
mendous pride, your sophomoric dignity, and go and 
make a friendly call on him? Would it crush your dig- 
nity entirely ? You need not pretend that you have ever 
tried it ; for I happen to know that you have not, — not 
for — let me see — fifteen, sixteen months now.” 

“ Ellen, you’re a perfect mystery ! Who keeps you so 
well posted in college-affairs? I shall have the goodies 
and skips cross-examined at once. There must be a femi- 
nine Freemasonry dogging us when we least expect it. 
Tell me, what time did I go to my rooms last evening? 
What is my beloved chum doing at this moment? No 
answer ! Do you need to look at my palm, — ecce ! ” 

“Now, George, promise me you will be good, forget 
your silly quarrel with Mr. Hammersmith, and tell me 
to-morrow evening that you have made up with him, and 
are in a fair way to be friends again.” 

“ Ellen, I can’t do it: he’s too mightily stiff-necked. 
I should only get snubbed for my pains, I feel sure.” 

“ I don’t believe it, and I think you are very cowardly 
to be afraid of such a thing,” said Miss Darby. And, 
rising, she took from a writing-desk a small manuscript- 
book which she shielded with her hand as she came to the 
jghts. “ Let me read 3 T ou one or two things from a little 
treasure-book of mine, though I know you will not mind 
them : 4 We are all of us very weak, and exposed to many 
evils from within and without; and every man finds he 
hath enough to do to govern his own spirit, and to bear 
his own burden. Let us not add to it by offence and 
mutual provocation of one another. It may be — did we 
but know and were acquainted with the condition of 
'tners — we ourselves would think it very hard measure 
Vo add to their sorrow, and would rather help to bear their 
burdens.’ That is from Whichcote,” she said, blushing 
prettily to find herself reading thus to her handsome great 


19B 


1LAMME ESMITH : 


cousin, and doing the very thing against which she a ad 
at iirst protested, — trying to convert Goldie to her for- 
giving point of view. This coincidence occurred to her 
as she was reading, and added to her graceful tremor. 
But she went on reading one more extract : “ ‘ Suffer not 
your thoughts to dwell on the injuries you have received, 
or the provoking words that have been spoken to you. 
Not only learn the art of neglecting them at the time you 
receive them, but let them grow less and less every mo- 
ment, till they die out of your mind.’ There, Mr. Goldie, 
that was written for you ! ” 

“ Did you write it? ” 

“ Oh, no ! It applies to you, I mean. It’s anonymous, 
but pertinent, is it not? ” 

“ You wrote it, I know you did ! You’re very sly ; but 
it sounds just like you. Let me see the book? ” 

“ By no means,” said she, pocketing the thin, morocco- 
bound book. ‘ 1 1 consider it a great favor to have read to 
you from it. No one has ever been so privileged before. 
And you do not even thank me ! ” 

“ IIow frightful ! Thanks, ever so much, my dear Miss 
Anonymous, for your pertinent texts. I suppose you wish 
me to preach a sermon from them, or rather bring you 
word that I have acted upon them, eh? ” 

“Ido; and you are going to do it.” 

“ How long will you give me? A man can’t swallow 
his pride all at one dose,” pleaded Goldie. 

“ It’s over the sooner, and you will feel better : I know 
you will. But I’ll lot you have, — well, I’ll be generous ; 
I’ll let you have a week: this is Thursday, isn’t it? If 
you do not bring me word, before next Thursday morning, 
that you have done your very best to get on a good footing 
with Mr. Hammersmith again, farewell, cousin George. 
And mind, if 3~ou call here ever so many times before that 
(not that }’Ou are apt to) , and send ever so plaintive mes* 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


197 


pages, I shall be imperiously 4 not at home * to you, sir, 
unless you bring the news I want.” And with more such 
talk, simple cousinly badinage and pleading, the two rati- 
fied their compact ; and Goldie presently left for his rooms. 

He could not resist the temptation, as Miss Darby fol- 
lowed, and was closing the hall-door after him, to turn 
and say lightly, 44 Tid-de-um-dum-dum, Tid-de-um-dum- 
dum,” lifting a warning finger. 

But she made a saucy moue at him, and closed the 
door ; while Goldie ran down the gravel walk, and out 
under the elms, on his way home, pondering on his inter- 
view with his beautiful cousin, and on the marvellously 
permeating nature of college-news. 

How could she have learned so much of him and his 
friend? How could she know almost what was pass- 
ing in his mind? How could she know what was just 
breaking in upon his own consciousness, — that it was in- 
expressibly silly to magnify a few words of difference that 
had passed between himself and Hammersmith, and let 
them keep two friends apart so long ? He was not espe- 
cially astute ; and if he had been, and had not been much 
more of a success as a boating-man than as a student of 
character, he would still have been in the same bewilder- 
ment over the inexplicable feminine instinct, which divines, 
where a mau explores and seeks proof. 

It was not an easy task that his cousin had thrust upon 
him, however. He had the young’s man’s inflated sense 
of personal dignity and pride. All the class knew of his 
lukewarm feeling towards Hammersmith; and there was 
more than one thing to make him hesitate, and debate in 
his mind whether he could so far humble himself as to 
make overtures to Mr. Tom, — Mr. Tom, whilom a stiff- 
necked and rather scornful young gentleman, who appeared 
to know his own affairs, and wish to be unmolested, now 
% sullen young sophomore much broken in spirit, needing 


198 


hammersmith: 


and actually craving sympathy in his inmost heart, but 
outwardly repelling it, and steeling himself against ap- 
proach in perverse boy-fashion. 

So that into the midst of Goldie’s communings, and his 
reflections on the way that “ girls seem to know every 
thing,” came the thought, that he, Goldie, No. 2 in the 
’Varsity, secretary of the Institute, and mighty leader, as 
he deemed himself, in many ways, was undertaking a role 
far from congenial, very difficult, and not unlikely to end 
disastrously. Whether he would ever have carried it 
through if he had been left to his own devices, or how 
serious a cousinly estrangement would have been effected 
by his failure, is entirely a matter of conjecture. But the 
week of the cousins’ compact was fated to bring on events 
totally unprophesied by the most skilled of university 
augurs, — events which were to turn the thoughts of sev- 
eral men into quite new courses, materially affect the 
private relations of Tom and Goldie, and even reach so 
far as to cast a shadow on the field of college-sports for a 
time. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


199 


CHAPTER XIII. 

CROSSING SWORDS WITH THE FACULTY. 

“Ubique, Bed prsesertim in principum et regum aulis, est consilium optimum 
•ilere.” — Petba-Sancta. 

“Chi par la semina, chi tace raccoglie.” —Italian Proverb. 

T WO days later, students returning from early chapel 
had their attention arrested by the following an- 
nouncement on the bulletin-boards, about which an excited 
throng was presently collected : — 

Cambridge, June 12, 185-. 

The sophomore class is notified, that unless the perpetrators 
of the vandalism of last night shall come forward, and make them- 
selves known to the faculty, the class will be decimated, and 
many innocent men will be obliged to suffer. 

H. W. Thumpum, Secretary. 

Here was a bombshell. Few that read the fatal bulle- 
tin were yet aware of the nature or extent of the offence 
comprehended under the sinister name “ vandalism ; ” 
but all who read it took in the idea that the blood of the 
faculty was up, and retribution was preparing for the 
guilty, or, in default of the guilty, for their innocent class- 
mates, who might have been sleeping in their beds, or 
mewed in their rooms over their books, when the prowl- 
.ng vandals had done their work. 

“ What is it? ” asked freshmen. 

“ Terrible row last night,” answered the knowing. 

“ Where? ” 

“ Oh ! fight with policemen, after the Institute-meeting. 


200 


HAMMERSMITH: 


Fountain in Mr. Bradstreet’s grounds broken to pieces. 
Sophomores on an awful tear ! ” 

And before long the vandalism was a fact known to 
everybody within the college- walls, where it was tossed 
about from mouth to mouth, from dowdy bedmaker to 
bedmaker, from boot-polishing skip to spry letter-carrier, 
until you would have supposed that all the Goths and Huns 
of barbarism had descended upon Cambridge during the 
night, and held high junket within its quiet borders. 

The “ Institute of 1770,” of which Albemarle was now 
president, had adjourned at the usual hour the night be- 
fore, and crossed the street for the time-honored songs 
under the shadow of the church opposite. Merryweather, 
trombonist of the Pierians, was in the midst of a song, 
— “ Dear Evelina,” as harmless a ditty as ever the old 
walls had listened to. The surrounding crowd was sur- 
ging out on the rising crescendo of the chorus, — 

“Dear Evelina, sweet Evelina, 

My love for thee shall never, never die!” — 

how it has echoed along the New-England coast in days 
gone by ! — when a voice from the corner of Church Street 
broke in as an unwelcome finale, — 

“ Come, young gentlemen, we’ve had enough of this! 
Move off to your rooms ! ” 

“What’s up, Simpson? We’re doing no harm,” an- 
swered Freemantle ; and the crowd turned, to find some 
half-dozen policemen sauntering towards them. 

“ Can’t help it. There’s too much racket. We’ve 
got our orders to stop it.” 

“But the Institute has always sung here in this way.” 

“ There’s no use of making any words about it. I tel] 
you you’ve got to quit this howling. Go over and sing in 
the yard if you wish.” 

“But we don’t wish. And, by Jove ! we mean to sing 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


201 


here; and you can go to thunder!” shouted some rash 
fellow. 

“ What’s that? You just try it on, that’s all ! ” And 
there was great grumbling and murmuring, and much com 
sultation among the men, some of whom were for openly 
defying the authorities, and maintaining the hallowed cus- 
tom vi et armis. 

The policemen had, apparently without intent, put 
themselves around the crowd, however ; and the milder 
counsels prevailed. The men started across towards the 
quadrangle, the less turbulent in front, and the obstinate 
and pugnacious, like Penhallow, Pinckney, Hammersmith, 
Freemantle, Goldie, and others, in the rear. They started 
for the quadrangle ; but, as they went, the impulse was 
irresistible, and the whole throng broke out in a vicious 
chorus, at first low, then swelling to a defiant loudness, — 

“ I met three p’licemen on the strand, 

Luddy — f uddy — whack — f ul — ludy — I — oh l ” 

and more couplets equally edifying. 

It was a chorus that had often been shouted in defiance 
at pursuing officers of the town ; a species of “ ga ira ” 
that was accepted as the symbol of revolution both by 
students who sang, and policemen who felt themselves in- 
sulted by its well-known jerky movement. 

The officers made a dash, seized two or three of the 
laggards, and were carrying them off, when the cry, “ Res- 
cue, rescue!” was raised; and, almost to a man, the 
sophomores turned, and engaged the officers. Penhallow 
and Hammersmith had been rescued, and the crowd were 
laboring for Freemantle, when a fire-company came lum- 
bering down from North Cambridge, directly in the track 
vf the scrimmage, and joined forces with the policemen. 

No love had been lost between the students and the 
Cambridge Fire Brigade from time immemorial. How 


202 


HAMMERSMITH : 


the hostility had originated, history does not relate 
Whether it sprang from a professional contempt of the 
earl} 7 engine-company, made up among the students after 
the first burning of Harvard Hall, or from a plebeian envy 
of the fancy dresses and dilettante organization of the 
later company of undergraduates, with their rendezvous 
at Hollis Pump, their stated parades, and (most envied 
perquisite of all !) their substantial suppers after a fire in 
Cambridge or Boston which they had honored by extin- 
guishing, we cannot decide ; but certain it is, that, in 
Hammersmith’s day, the bitterest feeling existed between 
the knights of the hose and the young ’Varsity men ; nay, 
more than this. For because, forsooth, the tired scho- 
lastic head would fain protrude itself from the college- 
windows, and bellow, “Heads out, heads out!” when 
the fire-bells began to clang ; and because students 
would now and then delight to stretch their legs, cramped 
and grown weary from much worship before their lexi- 
cons and domestic gods, running patronizingly alongside 
the professionals as they struggled with “the machine,” 
encouraging them with friendly chaff the while, — the 
rumor grew that the students themselves were in the 
habit of setting fires in remote spots for merest sport, 
and for enjoyment of the firemen’s drudgery. How such 
a rumor, growing by what it fed on, came to add fuel 
to the small village war may be imagined. A mere spark 
w as enough to set it in a blaze ; and an opportunity like 
the present, for giving battle to their natural foes under 
the protection of the guardians of municipal order, was 
looked upon by the firemen as providential. 

They deserted their engine, joined the officers ; and for 
a few moments there was as lively a scrimmage as had 
ever occurred between the old-time enemies. 

Hammersmith was in the thick of the fight ; no such 
mean antagonist now, as when he saw Ins first stars on 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


203 


the Delta, in the verdant da} T s so long past, hut stubborn, 
determined, powerful, and an excellent boxer. Again 
and again a man was caught, and hurried off towards the 
neighboring lock-up ; and again and again there was a 
gallant rush and a rescue. It lasted but a few moments, 
however; and, as it is only a prelude to the vandalism 
referred to in the faculty-bulletin, this struggle does not 
call for minute description. At its end the sophomores 
had lost three or four men, Freemantle among them, who 
were carried off, and safely jugged, being liberated on the 
next day, with inconsiderable fines and a judicial benedic- 
tion. The rest of the men retreated within the quadran- 
gle, where they stood, breathing defiance, and daring their 
opponents to enter its sacred limits. 

Quiet sleep, even the contemplative pipe and mild gos- 
sip, with comparisons of deeds of prowess, were tame 
affairs, however, after such an exciting stir of the blood ; 
and the last shout of vengeance had hardly been hurled 
after the retiring firemen, when a party sallied out of the 
quadrangle, and made their way to the western end of 
town. 

We need hardly follow them on their raid. But if we 
could have been at hand the following morning, and seen 
the consternation of early-rising burghers, when they 
came out to sniff the fresh morning air of June and saw 
the altered face of Nature about their premises, we should, 
have had a rare sight. 

“ Dammy, what’s this?” said old Mr. Boreman, look- 
ing out of his front-door, and advancing to the street. 
A neat little stone wall surrounded his place, though 
which a stout, low gate, sanded to stone-color, admitted 
to his ample grounds. He reaches the gate ; and in place 
•jf his solid, iron-strengthened wicket, with silver-plated 
1 B. Boreman ” ornamenting its front, there is a weather- 
stained, unpainted board affair towering high above his 


204 


HAMMERSMITH : 


wall, against which it leans. He kicks it over with a mad 
burgher’s kick ; and, with sundry strong expressions of 
disgust, goes in to take a sorry breakfast with Madam 
Boreman and the Misses Boreman, who are treated to a 
homily on the sinfulness and license of student-life, and 
the awful inefficiency of the Cambridge police. 

Boreman’s own gate has been carried a half-mile, and 
propped up against an ungated entrance to a pasture, 
where the itinerant milkman, going his rounds, grins at 
its misplaced smartness, and winks at “B. Boreman,” 
shining in the morning sun. Other gates are carried from 
street to street, and exchanged most unmatchedly : they 
are suspended from trees ; they are tossed into flower- 
beds ; they are hung upon gas-posts. Gas-lamps, too, are 
made to suffer, although the vandal knows that noisy de- 
struction is two-edged, and may cut back upon himself; 
so that only here and there, in outlying streets, are the 
glasses riddled, and the tops of the posts removed. 

Street-signs, too, are purloined: “Appleton Street” 
is transferred to “ Appian Way ; ” “ Cambridge Street,” 
to “ Fayerweather Street; ” and many are carried off to 
grace the rooms of the students, — where “Quincy 
Street” may be seen pointing to a coal-closet, and 
“ Craigie Street ” leading up a fireplace, along with vari- 
ous horse- car emblems ; an arrangement somewhat con- 
fusing to one topographically inclined. 

This might all have been passed over, and the curious 
spectacle of anxious townsmen employing a half Saturday 
in hunting their lost wickets, cutting them down from 
lamp-posts, and transporting them home on their shoul- 
ders or in carts, might have been regarded as rather 
laughable than serious, if there had not been a greater 
excess. 

But when Mr. Augustus Bradstreet drove down to the 
president’s house in his rattling chaise, even before 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


205 


prayer , — surprising the worthy DumnK.r in act of exe- 
cuting his matin shave, — and with much jingling of pon- 
derous watch-seals, and much violent language, announced 
the destruction of his costly fountain, — a marble Triton 
with impossible convolutions of tail, which had been wan- 
tonly knocked to pieces, — the matter became too serious 
to be passed over lightly. 

“Yes, sir; and I shall have a judicial investigation 
instituted, and an example made of your young scape- 
graces if I can catch them ! It’s a shame, sir, a disgrace, 
and I think it is time that this vandalism should stop! 
Five hundred dollars would not have bought that fountain, 
sir ! It was a copy, sir, a valuable copy, of the antique, 
by Count Whacko Chisello of Florence, second cousin of 
Victor Emmanuel, and an Eyetalian of extraordinary 
genius.” 

“ Well, well, Mr. Bradstreet, I shall be very happy to 
co-operate with you in any reasonable measures you may 
care to institute. But you must appreciate how powerless 
I am to prevent such proceedings, anxious though I may 
be, and equally anxious to see the actors properly pun- 
ished. Plato was right when he said that boys were the 
most ferocious of animals,” concluded the learned Dum- 
mer ; and, embodying the indignant burgher’s word u van- 
dalism ” in the notice which we have seen, he despatched 
it by his man for the secretary’s signature, and it was 
posted while prayers were in progress. 

This faculty-bull hung up on the bulletin-boards worked 
no exception to its many predecessors. Men would be 
drawn and quartered before they would announce them- 
selves as the culprits pointed at. They would suffer the 
rack and the thumb-screw rather than carry tales of their 
classmates. And, to say train, the men who held the 
secret of the vandalism and the names of the party were 
very few in number. And the decimation threatened might 


206 


HAMMERSMITH : 


have proceeded, and the actual offenders never have been 
known, if affairs had not taken an entirely unexpected 
turn. 

Sunday and a large part of Monday had passed. No 
new developments under the faculty-order. Men were 
debating among themselves if the full letter of the order 
would be observed, and speculating on the chances of 
being among the unfortunate victims. Ten into ninety- 
nine, nine and nine- tenths times — every man performed 
the simple division, and knew his chance in the lotte^. 
Much questioning failed to bring out more than vaguest 
conjectures as to the names of the men at fault. Stories 
were told of the horrible fate that had overtaken tattlers 
and tale-bearers in earlier, more ferocious da} T s ; and, if 
anybody had an itching desire to hand a name to the 
facult}^, he trembled at the thought, and quickly subdued 
it. 

Word spread, about mid- afternoon of Monday, that 
Goldie and Hammersmith had been summoned to the 
faculty-meeting of that evening. It could hardly be 
credited : their names had been seldom associated with 
the marauding party in the wildest guessing. The presi- 
dent’s freshman was captured and pumped. Yes, he had 
carried summonses to both Hammersmith and Goldie this 
very afternoon. What for? Of course he did not know. 
The men themselves were interviewed. They were sum- 
moned most assuredly : they produced the mysterious 
little strips of paper which had been handed them ; but 
they were as ignorant of the reason as the president’s 
young freshman himself. 

“ They look mighty innocent,” said Ladbroke. “ But 
by Jove ! Hammersmith has a confounded mysterious air, 
as though he knew more than he cared to tell.” And Lad- 
broke left a group on Stoughton steps, pleasing himself 
with a secret hope that Hammersmith, at least, might be 
about to meet what he considered his deserts. 


HIS HARVABD DAYS. 


207 


About nine o’clock in the evening there was a furious 
rapping at the door of Professor Darby’s house, — a mile 
or more from the college-buildings. The maid appeared in 
some trepidation, and, seeing Goldie, admitted him into 
the hall. 

“Is Miss Ellen in?” asked he, panting with excite- 
ment from running. 

“Yes, sir, she is,” answered the maid, who assumed a 
very quizzical expression, as she added ; “ but she has 
told me, when you call, that you shall say what news you 
have brought, sir.” 

“What news!” said Goldie. “Oh, that’s all right! 
Tell her I have some news. Hurry, please.” And Ellen 
presently came running down the stairs. 

“Well?” said she stopping half way down, with her 
hand on the rail. “ Are you serious to-night, George? or 
have jx>u made your way in under false pretences? ” 

“No, no, Ellen: I’m serious enough to-night, in all 
conscience’ sake ! Come into the library. Anybody 
here? ” 

“No: father has not come from faculty-meeting yet 
Mother has just gone to her room. Why, George, what’s 
the matter? ” she said, as Goldie sank into a chair, with a 
great groan. 

“ Ellen, I suppose a girl doesn’t know what it is to be 
tracked, and deceived, and bed about, and slandered, 
does she? ” 

“ What are you talking about? ” 

“ And to want sjunpathy, and feel that the one person 
in all the world that can give :t is denying it to you, and 
keeping aloof? ” 

“ Now you’re talking about Mr. Hammersmith, aren’t 
you? ” 

“ How can you tell ! Yes, I am. Ellen, he is the most 
magnificent, great-hearted fellow in the world ! He has 


208 


HAMMERSMITH : 


had a perfect network of villany and cunning surround- 
ing him for months now ; and this time they have tried to 
rope me in ! ” 

4 4 What can it all be, George ? Can you tell me?” 

44 Of course I can, my dear Ellen. You will be glad, 
perhaps, to have me tell you, in the first place, that you 
were entirely right about Hammersmith (you are always 
light, somehow or other) , and that he and I are going to 
be just as fast friends as ever again ; are already on the 
way to it, I am happy to say.” 

44 1 am so glad! But how did it all come about? I 
knew 3 r ou would do as I wished about it.” 

44 You just wait. Don’t be so sure of it! I might not 
have screwed up my courage, with all my tiying, if things 
had not fallen out oddly enough. I tried to go up boldly 
to him, or speak to him at the river, several times : but I 
couldn’t do it ; it seemed to stick in my throat, and I felt 
very foolish about it at the same time. Then that scrape 
of Friday night came on. You’ve heard of it, of course, 
since you hear every thing, you little rogue? ” 

44 Now, don’t revive that silly expression, please ! Yes, 
I’ve heard of it ; but that is all. You don’t mean that you 
were in that, George? or Mr. Hammersmith? ” 

44 No, not exactly. But don’t be in a hurry! That 
scrape came on ; and everybody was excited, and had 
nothing else to talk about ; and then Tom went home with 
Penhallow for Sunday, and to-day I have been so busy, 
and we didn’t go out in the boat, as they’re altering the 
outriggers, and” — 

44 Oh, you procrastinating man! I verily believe you 
have not spoken to him at all ! ” 

44 Yes, yes, I have. Sit down. I thought you would 
wish to hear it all : so I was beginning at the beginning. 
Well, you know the faculty issued an order about Friday 
night. Old Bradstreet came down, and made a fearful 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


209 


touse about his old two-penny fountain, that the fellows 
broke up, — not that I think it was a good thing to do, — 
and they had to take notice of it ; so threatened to deci- 
mate the class, if the perpetrators of the vandalism, as 
they called it, were not made known.” 

“ What do you mean by decimating? ” 

“ Why, taking out every tenth man, and suspending him, 
or expelling him.” 

“No, really? ” 

“Yes, indeed! No joke, I assure you! Of course, 
nobody came forward to announce himself : he would be a 
precious fool if he did ! And this afternoon Hammer- 
smith and I were summoned to the faculty.’ 

“ Why, George ! ” 

“ I didn’t suppose it could possibly refer to the Brad- 
street affair ; for I went to my rooms directly after the 
scrimmage with the firemen, — I suppose you’ve heard of 
that too? ” 

“Yes, I have ; and I heard that you were as wicked as 
you could be, and did more fighting than anybody else, 
and I’m ashamed of you ! ” 

“ Oh, no, you’re not! You were mighty glad to hear 
it, I know ! Well, I had gone to my rooms, as I say, 
and I was quite sure Hammersmith had done the same, 
though I could not have sworn to it ; and consequently I 
was a good deal surprised at our being summoned. Wc 
met in the anteroom of the faculty; and although there 
were a couple of freshmen waiting before us, in fear and 
trembling, old Wizzen opened the door, and ushered us in. 
Hu mm er sat at the head of the long table, and all the rest 
of the old pods were ranged about it.” 

“Why, George, how you do talk about them! ” said 
Miss Ellen. 

“Your father was there, and old Brimblecom, and 
Bone, and the rest ; and they seemed actually tickled to 


210 


HAMMERSMITH : 


see us brought in, and stand twiddling our hats. I don’t 
mean that your father did, or Brimblecom, but most of 
them : in fact, uncle looked a good deal dashed to see us, 
as I think he had no idea we were summoned. 

“ Well, old Dummer was tapping the table with a ruler 
as we came up near him, and grinned feebly, as he said, 
‘ Mr. Goldie, Mr. Hammersmith,’ and we bowed. He 
hemmed a little, and went on, looking about the table. 

“ 4 We have received information, Mr. Goldie, that yon 
were concerned in the destruction of property in Cam- 
bridge last Friday evening, and particularly in the matter 
of Mr. Bradstreet’s fountain. We have thought it best to 
summon } t ou, and inquire personally of you about your 
participation in the affair, before ordering any punishment 
for the offence : this as a justice to yourself, a mere matter 
of form I may say, — a mere matter of form. What have 
you to say in extenuation of the offence? ’ 

“‘I have only this to say, sir, that your information is 
entirely incorrect. I had nothing whatever to do in the 
matter ; went to my rooms after the Institute meeting, and 
— and a little disturbance with the police,’ said I. 

“ ‘Yes, we have heard of that too,’ he said, smiling 
grimly about the table. ‘ But I think we can pass over 
that, gentlemen. The young men were interrupted in 
their singing, I have been informed.’ 

“ The room murmured assent. 

“ ‘ Then you say, Mr. Goldie,’ he went on, ‘ that you 
had nothing to do with this affair ? ’ 

“ ‘ I do sir,’ said I. 

“ ‘ That you know nothing whatever of it, — the names 
of the party, and so on ? ’ 

‘“I do sir. I know nothing whatever of the affair, 
beyond the vague rumors that have been flying about.’ 

“ ‘ Well, gentlemen, I do not know that we have anj 
thing more to ask Mr. Goldie. Our information is o' 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


211 


such an indefinite nature, that we give no especial cre- 
dence to it ; and the young gentleman’s word is enough 
to exonerate him. — That will do, Mr. Goldie. — Mr. Ham- 
mersmith,* he said, turning towards Tom. And Tom 
stepped forward, looking as handsome as a picture, but as 
mad as a hornet. I saw that he was boiling over with 
rage ; but I was not prepared for his cool manner. 

44 4 How is it with you, Mr. Hammersmith? * asked the 
president. 4 Were you at all implicated in the affair? * 

4 4 4 1 will answer, sir, when I am told the character of 
the information on which I am summoned,* said Tom, 
without the slightest tremor in his words. 

44 4 It — it — hardly signifies,* said old Dummer : 4 we 
do not wish further to complicate the matter. A simple 
44 Yes ** or 44 No ’* will be satisfactory. — Eh, gentlemen?’ 

4 4 4 1 will be happy to accommodate you, if I may be 
allowed to know the name of the man who has brought 
you the story of my complicity in the affair,’ said Tom. 
4 1 do not think being stabbed in the back, in this way, 
is a very noble death ! ’ And I never saw a fellow’s eyes 
flash as Tom’s did, though he was as cool as you are now, 
in manner.” 

44 Why, George, you do not mean that he was really in 
the disgraceful affair? ” asked Miss Darby. 

44 Not at all, not at all ! ” said Goldie. 

44 He was simply cut to the quick, and stubborn, as he 
always is when he’s insulted. You can’t imagine how his 
last words affected the faculty ! There was a great hem- 
ming and hawing. Brimblecom took off his spectacles 
and wiped them ; old Dummer glared horribly at the ced- 
ing ; and though I would not dare breathe it to anybody 
else, Ellen, I could take my oath that the slightest per- 
ceptible wink appeared in your father’s left eye as he 
looked up, and met Tom’s gaze. I was watching him at 
the time, and I am sure the dear old fellow xras hr 


212 


HAMMERSMITH : 


mensely tickled at Tom’s pluck. Tom stood, meanwhile, 
as quiet as a statue, looking about the room. 

44 4 Hem, these words — Mr. Hammersmith, it would 
avail you nothing to hear the nature of our information,’ 
said Dummer. — 4 And I think you agree with me, gen- 
tlemen, when I say we have no wish to do Mr. Ham- 
mersmith an injustice. — A simple denial will be entirely 
satisfactory: otherwise we shall be obliged to proceed 
on a presumption of your guilt.’ 

4 4 4 1 regret, sir, that I cannot comply with your wishes. 
I decline to say a word if I am not permitted to know the 
grounds of the charge preferred against me.’ And Tom 
tossed his head in the way that you must have seen, — no ? 
— and looked very defiant. 

4 4 4 Well, well, gentlemen. Yes, Mr. Hammersmith, 
will you be pleased to retire to the next room, ?ind Mr. 
Goldie? ’ And we stepped out. A hubbub, and confused 
argument, and moving of papers, followed ; and in a few 
moments we were called back. 

4 4 4 We arrive at the conclusion with regret, Mr. Ham- 
mersmith ; but your manner will permit no other course,’ 
said the president. 4 You still persist in refusing to ex- 
plain your connection with this affair ? ’ 

4 4 4 1 do, sir, most politely, but most emphatically.’ 

4 4 4 We are compelled, then, to announce to you that 
you are suspended for six months. You will be expected 
to pass this period in study ; and you will to-morrow be 
informed with whom.’ 

4 4 4 Thank you, sir : is that all? ’ asked Tom. Dummer 
bowed his head, looking daggers at Tom, and we left.” 

44 Is he really suspended, George? Is it true? ” asked 
Miss Darby, showing more interest than was discreet. 

44 True as gospel, I’m sorry to say,” said Goldie, 44 un- 
less your father, or somebody, can get it altered. But gra 
cious ! Hammersmith is in such a rage now, that I doubt 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


213 


whether he would stay in Cambridge, if they would let 
him.” 

“ Poor fellow! What did you say to him?” asked 
Ellen. 

“ Oh ! I went right up to his room with him ; and we 
had such a half-hour’s talk as I have never had with a 
man in my life, Ellen, I can tell you. He is a stunning 
fellow, by Jove ! ” 

“ Can you tell me what he said? ” 

“ Why, of course he was awfully cut up, when he saw 
what he had really done, and appreciated it was all his 
own fault, and might have been avoided. But I knew his 
temper well enough not to make it worse by telling him 
that he had made a mistake ; and, ’pon my word, I was 
so delighted with his pluck, that I could hardly make up 
my mind to call it a mistake.” 

“ But it was, George, it was. I am so sorry he spoke 
out so ! ” 

“Well, perhaps it was. But don’t let us cry over spilled 
milk. The thing to do is to try to save the poor fellow.” 

“ Certainly we must.” And the brave girl stood up as 
though she were going at once to do it. “ But what did 
he say, George? ” 

“ I can’t tell you all he said, Nell : I’ve no right 
to tell you all. Of course he raged round, and said he 
would shoot the man who had told such a lie about him ; 
for it was a lie, — a foul, slanderous lie, as he said. He 
was in his rooms all the time that night, just as I was ; and 
he asked me who I thought it was, and I could not give 
the faintest guess, of course ; and then he seemed to think 
of something. And he said a good many pleasant things 
to me, about how I had given nim good advice once, 
nrhich it would have been much better for him to have 
followed, and what an egregious fool he had been, and so 
on. and so on. That gave me a good chance, Ellen, which 


214 


HAMMERSMITH: 


was all I was waiting for ; and I assured him how £>orry ] 
had been for him, and how I .had wished to speak to him, 
and cheer him up, but had supposed he did not care for 
it, and might resent it. And he said it was the very 
thing above all others that he wanted, — my friendship 
and S3inpathy ; that he had been more cut up than by 
any thing else, because I held off from him (almost your 
very words, dear Ellen), and so on. You can be sure I 
made it all right, — told him that it had been my fault all 
along, and that I ought not to have been so obstinate, 
but should have gone to him, and tried to help him. But 
he would not allow me to put it in that way, and declared 
that it was all his own fault ; that he had given me cause 
for thinking harshly of him, and that, if he had not been 
such a proud fool, (think of Hammersmith calling himself 
a proud fool ! ) he would have come to me long ago, and 
apologized for his hasty words in freshman year, and — 
well, Ellen, he behaved like a brick, and I felt like a 
fool to have treated him so ; for it might all have been 
avoided just as well as not. And now I see that your 
advice was entirely correct, and that I have misunder- 
stood the fellow from the very start. ’ ’ 

“ I’m very, very glad, George, that it has all turned out 
so well, if we can only do something to save him. Who 
can have been so wicked as to tell such an awful he about 
him, and about you too? ” 

“ We can’t make out. That’s the very thing that 
puzzles Hammersmith in the whole matter. It is bad 
enough taking care of the scrapes that a fellow really gets 
involved in, as Tom said, without having ah the sins of 
the cohege laid at your door ; and Hammersmith’s excite- 
ment is not so much at the idea of being sent away 
(though he feels that keenly enough) , but at the idea of 
anybody being mean enough to slander him so disgrace- 
fully. Of course, if Tom had not been so high-strung, he 


HIS HAH YARD DAYS. 


215 


might have avoided suspension by simply denying his con- 
nection with the fountain matter, as I did. I had no idea 
of ftydng out at the charge : it came so suddenly, in fact, 
that I had no time to reflect on it ; and I was glad enough 
to be able to get off by a mere denial. But Tom had a 
little time to think on it, you see, — while they were ques- 
tioning me, — and being the impetuous, open-hearted fellow 
that he is, he was cut to the quick, I suppose, at the idea 
of being hauled up on a dark charge, evidently not of a 
substantial character, and stabbed in the back, as he put 
it to them. Gracious ! you ought to have seen old Wiz- 
zen start when he plumped that phrase among them. 
You would have thought the old bird had been stabbed 
himself. ,, 

“You have no idea who started the report? He might 
be induced to withdraw it, and apologize/ * said Ellen, 
with a simple knowledge of ways and means. 

“ Hardly think that would do any good. You see, 
Tom’s manner of taking it is what has used him up : they 
cannot forgive his severe speech. And Tom cannot begin 
to guess who could have slandered him in this fashion. 
By the way, I took the liberty of asking him to come up 
here with me just now ; but he said he could not think of 
it. He will call to-morrow, or before he goes off, and say 
good-by, he says, — the idea of losing him just at this 
time ! The crew will be simply demoralized. And I 
shall feel that I am partly to blame, for not having stood 
by him before, and so kept him a little more straight. 
Good gracious ! good gracious ! Tufton, Tufton ! Can it 
oe possible that that fellow is pursuing him yet? It never 
occurred to me till this moment ; but it is impossible. He 
has been gone more than a week now ; and some fellows 
saw him taking the cars for New York in the Boston and 
Worcester depot. Hammersmith told me a great deal 
about his relations with that scoundrel, moreover, that 1 


216 


HAMMERSMITH : 


have never known before ; and the way the poor fellow 
has suffered at his hands is something frightful ; but for 
Heaven’s sake, Ellen, never let him know that I have 
hinted a word of all this to you ! promise me.” 

“ Of course, I never will, George; and I am more 
sorry than I can say that it has all ended in his being 
suspended. He shall not be. Come, George, what do 
you propose?” And the fair cousin, with heightened 
color, and more excitement than was common with her, 
ran to the door to welcome her father, whose step she 
heard at the moment. 

The warm-hearted professor burst in upon their despair 
with fresh news and kindly plans ; and the three fell to 
talking of the episode and of Hammersmith’s chances, 
and sat together far into the night. 


HTS HAEVAED DAYS. 


217 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE HAMMERSMITH RUBICON. 

“ B« bolde, Be bolde, and everywhere, Be bold.” — Spenser. 

*• Ignis aurum probat, miseria fortes viros.” — Seneca. 

M EAN W HITE the young gentleman in question, 
Mr. Tom, was pacing his room, and indulging in 
reflections by no means calculated to cheer his despond- 
ency. This, then, was the end of all the hopes and 
plans, the maternal anxiety and uncle’s beneficence, for 
his college-career ; for the idea of returning to Cambridge 
after his period of rustication was over did not once enter 
the indignant young fellow’s head : he would never think 
of such a thing. 

Lope de Vega, jilted by a dark-eyed senorita, joined 
the Armada, we are told, and used up, as wadding for his 
gun, the verses that he had written to his treacherous 
inamorata. Tom’s Alma Mater, which he loved, and would 
have fought for, — though he had done nothing extraordi- 
nary as yet to- testify his devotion, — had spurned him. 
A false tale, a slander, had been accepted by her ; he had 
been struck in the dark ; he would have no more of her. 
And all his rosy dreams and longing, his high-hearted 
hopes and resolves, he now fashioned into sinister weapons 
aga.nst his too cruel mother, dipping them in a dark bath 
of poisoned feeling. How gravely foolish the reasoning, 
how simply impulsive the spirit , of the lad, laying at the 
door of the constituted authorities the evil which his own 
impetuous words had brought ! 


218 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Men dropped in to console, to inquire, to advise. It 
was a cold comfort and a thin sympathy at best that they 
could bring ; and the sombre Hammersmith did not seem 
in a mood to appreciate or to plan. What planning could 
theie be, when the morrow would bring the ultimatum of 
the Faculty, and he should step forward, demand his 
papers, and bid good-by to the college forever? Should 
he write to his mother, advising her of his coming ? Oh ! 
where was his uncle Gayton? He sat down, and wrote to 
his mother. He tried to describe it all in a vein of pleas- 
antry, as though it were not so terrible a thing after all. 
But his hand shook : he was telling her only half the 
truth ; she knew nothing whatever of the Boggle affair. 
He could not send her such a letter : he tore it up. 

His chum Penhallow spent the evening with him. He 
was sympathy itself. And yet he was deep in his own 
troubles, much closer allied to Tom’s taan Hammersmith 
knew ; and he was waiting only the developments of the 
morning to take as decisive action as Tom himself. How 
we deceive ourselves, and shake our own chains for very 
sport in our misery, looking with envy on lighter-hearted 
mortals, whom we picture free as air, unvisited by griefs ! 
Tom fairly begrudged his chum the careless ease and 
untroubled tranquillity of his college-life ; while all the 
time Penhallcw was feeding on his own bitter bread, and 
debating his own sorry problem. Should he come forward 
yet? Would it save Tom if he did? Was it true that 
Tom’s own words had been the cause of his suspension, 
and that the faculty would go no farther in their investi- 
gation, as many men seemed to think? Penhallow was 
as stanch a Mend as Hammersmith had ; but was there 
any thing to be gained by opening his mouth, if Tom were 
not to be saved by the means ? Pen didn’t know ; and 
being no subtle moralist, but a youth remarkably apt to 
grow uncommonly sleepy about eleven o’clock, he turned 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


219 


in at that hour, and left Tom at the table, a sheet of paper 
before him, his head leaning on his left hand. 

Hammersmith had packed a few traps ; he had tried to 
write home ; he had tried still harder to bring himself to 
make an apology to the faculty, as the ardent Pinckney 
had suggested, less afraid than Goldie of Tom’s resenting 
the very suggestion : but he could not do it. What ? 
apologize to men who had listened to a vile slander, sum- 
moning him to answer it without telling him its origin and 
its author? Get down on his knees to such men? Never ! 
And the blood of all the Hammersmiths wa3 up ; and the 
much-tossed Tom put on his hat, and went out into the 
still night. 

He hardly knew what course he took : he wandered 
about without aim. He was on fire when he came out ; 
he was breathing defiance at everybody : but the cool air 
of midnight, and the calm stars, looking down on joy and 
misery alike with impassive gaze, came to quiet his raging 
mood, and lead Despair with gentle hand into a land of 
hope and quiet reflection. 

Here were the steps of Harvard Hall, where he had first 
met Goldie. Here was the hall whence he had rushed ex- 
ultant, brandishing his entrance-papers, and falling into 
the arms of his classmates below stairs. And there was the 
very spot where his dear old uncle had waited for him in 
his barouche, drawn up outside the gate, and received the 
young freshman with hearty congratulations. There was 
the Delta, where his first stout struggle with the sopho- 
mores had taken place ; where Breese had distinguished 
aimself, and vaulted the fence, just here, as he fled for his 
rooms. And he stood on the very spot where McGregor 
had caught him up, and congratulated him on his plucky 
stand against him in the game. Goldie’s old rooms, 
where he had played such different parts ; the old Hollis 
Pump, where he had cooled his lips so many times, rush 


220 


HAMMERSMITH : 


ing in from cricket, or football, or rapid constitutional, 
just in time foi recitation ; the Institute, scene of his early 
initiation and first office-holding ; all the different land- 
marks ol his bright college-life, — -must he leave these in 
disgrace, and look back upon them as only the fragments 
of a broken dream? The swaying foliage of the elms, 
that have listened to so many vows and prayers, songs 
and shouts, before, and dropped their flickering shadows 
on the merry and the grave, the thoughtful scholar and 
the idle reveller alike, rose and fell with a quiet night- 
whisper above young Tom, pacing under their arches for 
the last time, as he thought, poor fellow ! The last lights 
went out, and he was alone with the stars and the night. 
He thought of his mother and his sweet young sister 
Mabel, and of all the wild nights of the past year ; and 
he cursed himself for all the wicked extravagance and 
folly which had kept him from the high courses on which 
he had started. 

It was a sad, bitter fight that he was fighting with him- 
self; fighting to decide if he were to gain that victory 
which is greater than the taking of cities, or to slink off 
in disgrace, lowering his lance, and confessing defeat; 
such a fight as Amadis de Gaul and Dardan fought, stub- 
born, bitter, shield to shield, and axe to axe, till Amadis, 
sore-pressed and well-nigh fainting, beheld the fair Oriana 
at her window, received new strength, and conquered. If 
only at the window of Hope some fair Oriana might appear 
to Tom ! If only he knew that while he wa s struggling 
thus, and facing the conflict within his own heart, there 
was some radiant presence working for him, about him, 
around him, — who shall say if not within him ? — inspiring 
him to be worthy of himself ! But Tom knew little of the 
sources of his strength from within and from without. He 
had small conception of the power of sentimental inspira- 
• tion ; and he knew nothing of a certain earnest little trip 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


221 


artite meeting that was just about breaking up, as lie went 
over towards the river, across Harvard Square. He knew 
only that everybody seemed to be against him, and that his 
own rash temper had wrought him nothing but harm from 
his earliest college-days, — first with Goldie, afterwards 
with Ladbroke, then with the Boggles, the disgusting Bog- 
gles ! and now finally with the faculty itself. Whom could 
he imagine working for him, even with prayers, and with 
what effect, in any case, if his own temper insisted on run- 
ning away with him, and working his ruin? No : it was a 
single-handed fight, Hammersmith vs. Circumstance ; and 
I am not sure that Tom was not deciding to call it a drawn 
battle, and retire from the field, so hard the conditions, 
and so relentless the malice of the warfare appeared to 
him. But Oriana was coming. 

Tom did not reflect, indeed, that he was merely meeting 
the ordinary fate of his race, merely drawing near that 
university Rubicon, where so many Hammersmiths had 
halted, and turned back, — at the full stream of sophomore 
life. Nor would the reflection have brought a fit conso- 
lation in view of the circumstances of his own suspen- 
sion. There was something comparatively manly (in Mr. 
Tom's mind at least) in plunging Hammersmith-fashion 
into some dangerous adventure, and being sent away a 
local hero. The family displeasure and admiring conster- 
nation of young sisters and cousins might be endured in 
a martyrdom like that, and Tom was sure that he could 
have carried off such a dismissal with not unbecoming 
dignity and ease. But to be sent away for nothing, (what 
youth will admit that hasty words are any thing ?) to be 
turned adrift with all the disgrace, and none of the eclat , 
which his ancestor Hammersmitns had carried off, — that 
was too much, that was too humiliating. 

Thus reflecting, thus torn with his restless thoughts, he 
passed, almost without noticing, his old freshman quar- 


222 


hammersmith: 


ters in the Brattle House. He turned, and went under the 
shadow of Tufton’s deserted rooms, forsaken by even 
boozy Jordan now, and made his way to the boat-houses 
by a natural impulsion. He crossed the narrow plank 
leading over the marshes : he opened the houses with a 
key that he carried, and sat down on the timbers, facing 
the water. 

Here was the scene of his first considerable triumphs in 
sports. Here he had first paddled out in freshman year, 
and astonished onlookers by his faultless stroke. Up yon- 
der tackle he had climbed many a time, returning from a 
pull with a crew. At this very door he had issued to take 
his seat in the famous six of his first }'ear, which had 
quitted itself so well, and in the ’Varsity, only a few days 
ago now, followed by the hopes and praise of the college. 

There was Tufton’s favorite lounging-place, in that 
corner, sheltered from the wind. Tom had seen him many 
a time standing there, lazily watching the crews, and mak- 
ing those investigations whose purpose we have now some- 
what divined, — and Tom, too, alas ! Ah, how he remem- 
bered Tufton’s very words as he spoke admiringly of Tom’s 
stroke one da} r , so long ago, and asked him up for a glass 
of wine ! And this man, who had professed such friend- 
ship, who had been at his side for weeks and months, who 
had initiated him into waj^s and places which now made 
him sick as he thought of them, — this man had turned 
on him, and swindled him, and lied to him, and made him 
a laughing-stock among his xTiends ! For this man’s 
friendship he had sacrificed Goldie and Breese and Albe- 
marle, and hosts of good men, with whom his relations had 
been only lukewarm in consequence of his absorption with 
Tufton. For him he had given hot, cruel words to Goldie, 
best of fellows ! Through him, bah, the Boggle ! The long 
asinine folly, the vulgar surroundings, the double-faced 
actress, the soi-disant father, the wretched promise to pay 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


22 3 


and all the misery which it had brought to him ! — This 
note ! How could he ever pay it ? Could he ever pay it ? 
Ought he to pay it if he could ? Penhallow was right : 
Tom had started for Boston to ask his lawyers if the law 
could compel him to discharge an obligation which his 
honor told him was not binding ; but Penhallow did not 
know that he had quailed at asking the humiliating ques- 
tion, and having, possibly, to tell the whole story, by way 
of explanation, and had come back to Cambridge with his 
doubts unsettled. 

Later financial embarrassments, a heavier note ap- 
proaching protest, may bring more distress and consterna- 
tion in their train, but I doubt if they are more harrowing, 
than the sudden dismay with which a youth is over- 
whelmed when caught in a maze like Tom’s. To be sus- 
pended in so causeless a way, to leave behind a fail' repu- 
tation scarred and broken with folly, and seeming vice and 
extravagance, that was grievous enough surely ; but to 
have the truculent Boggle following him, like a Nemesis, 
with Tom’s signature on his paper, — following him, as he 
knew he would, wherever he went ; to feel that sooner or 
later he must make a clean breast of it, and obtain help 
from somebody (he scarcely dared think from whom) , or 
else miserably evade his promise, — that was top much! 
How could he evade it? What desperate measure could 
he adopt to free himself from the toils which had been 
gathering about him for months now ? Why not end £ 
all by flight? Why not — But do not brood on your 
desperate chances, dear Tom, or let your thoughts drop to 
the cool depths and quiet rest below the dark flood at your 
feet, lapping the timbers with gentle wash. It is cow- 
ardly, it is unbecoming a Hammersmith — and Oriana is 
coming ! 

He starts up, shakes himseT as with fresh resolution, 
and walks rapidly to his rooms. Whence the new hope ; 


224 


HAMMERSMITH : 


the brighter vision, had come, he knew not ; nor can any 
of us know. But if prayers avail, and maidenly interces- 
sion can do its pure office without the medium of personal 
presence, there was passing into Tom’s soul an inspira- 
tion and a delicious uplifting strength from a source 
which would have surprised the good fellow not a little , 
had he been told of it, but the effects of which he felt 
most markedly, thanking God. 

There was much hubbub and dismay next morning in 
the college- world. Hammersmith suspended ! It could 
not be ! In the Bradstreet scrape ? Impossible ! A 
dozen men could swear that he had gone quietly to his 
rooms after the firemen’s retreat. As many more could 
testify, if they would, that no Hammersmith had been with 
them in their after vandalism. But would these latter 
come forward and testify? And would their words save 
Hammersmith, whose own words had been his ruin? 
Nobody could say ; and Penhallow was vastly troubled in 
spirit with certain facts which he was carrying in his head. 

A monster petition was started. The sophomore class, 
to a man, put down their names ; and the other classes 
came forward almost unanimously to save Hammersmith, 
and stave off the chances of defeat at Worcester. The 
faculty was to be most respectfully petitioned to review 
the Hammersmith case, and receive the testimony of men 
who could show that he had no connection with the affair. 
Classmates, members of the ’Varsity, men who hardly 
knew him except by sight, called to beg him to apologize 
to the faculty, and, for the honor of the university, not 
give up his seat in the crew so easily. 

Tom was flattered, he felt his importance, he was sorry 
to be going ; but he would never write an apology. He 
packed more of his effects ; he collected a few tradesmen’s 
bills ; he called on Miss Darby, and bade her good-by in a 
way that made that collected young woman’s heart give 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


225 


ft great throb of pity for poor broken Tom ; and then he 
waited and waited for the final word from the authorities, 
when he felt that he would take such pleasure in announ- 
cing his determination to 4 4 take up his connections ” forth- 
with, and never return to the cold hospitality of the uni- 
versity. 

Early in the afternoon the president’s freshman was 
climbing to Tom’s rooms again. He handed Tom a note, 
this time from Dr. Brimblecom, requesting him to call at 
once at his study ; and Tom went off from an anxious 
roomful of friends, to hear his fate. 

What passed in that interview may better not be de- 
scribed, — how the good doctor received Hammersmith 
most cordially, in a manner bespeaking his hearty sympa- 
thy, and proceeded at once to the object of his summons, 
the faculty having deputed him to talk the matter over 
calmly with Hammersmith, who had evidently not been 
implicated in the offence (as they had since learned from 
a trustworthy source), and to endeavor to adjust the 
matter satisfactorily ; how Tom would listen to no ad- 
vances which did not include the disclosure of the origin 
of the slander against him, although he was most sen- 
sibly touched, and deeply thankful for the doctor’s kind 
dealing; how the doctor argued with him at greater 
length, and nearly persuaded him that he was marring his 
own life by mere obstinacy, and quite natural youthful 
indignation ; how the doctor could not quite conceal his 
admiration for Tom’s fine rage and manly bearing ; and 
how, at length, producing a small scrap of paper, he 
told Hammersmith that he held in his hand the paper 
charging Hammersmith with complicity in the fountain 
affair. He was not exactly authorized to deliver this 
paper to Tom, he added ; but he could take the liberty of 
doing so, if Tom would but go witn him to the president’s, 
and retract the severe language which he had used in the 


226 


HAMMERSMITH : 


faculty room. And Tom still held out ; hut the fatherly 
interest of the kind-hearted doctor, the sight of the paper 
almost within his grasp, the thought of his mother let us 
hope, and the ease of stepping across to the president’s 
with Brimblecom, and saying the simple five words to the 
offended Dummer, all conspired to weaken his resistance ; 
and at last he said, — 

44 I will do so, doctor, if you think best.” 

The doctor was handing him the paper, when he stopped 
and said, — 

44 But I had forgotten that the faculty make it a condi- 
tion in the case, that you shall not take part in any more 
rowing this term, Mr. Hammersmith, and shall show a 
commendable devotion to your college-duties.” 

Tom was more aghast than ever, — this condition thrust 
in just when every thing seemed working smoothly for 
him! And again he refused to have any thing to do 
with the retraction. But the doctor did not mean that the 
fine, stubborn fellow should destroy his whole college- 
career from sheer perversity ; and, with that suave and 
genial persistence which brought men down so effectually, 
he worked away at Tom till he calmed his fresh fury, and 
the paper was handed to him. 

It was undated, signed with no name, and ran simply : — 

I have tlie honor of reporting that Mr. Goldie and Mr. Ham- 
mersmith were concerned in the destruction of the fountain on Mr. 
Bradstreet’s grounds on Friday night last, and were chief actors 
in the disturbance of that night. X. 

A simple enough slander, which a word from Hammer- 
smith might have refuted at once. But some idea of his 
state of mind on reading the small paper may be had, 
when it is known, that on opening the fatal missive, and 
casting his eye rapidly at its flourishing chirography, Tom 
recognized at a glance the well-known, too well-known 
uand of Tufton, my Lord Tufton, whose curiously-folded 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


227 


notes he had so often found on his centre-table, or stuck 
up in his mirror, inviting him here and there. 

The good doctor was rather astonished at this cool 
r wading of the note where he had expected excitement ; 
but Tom was stunned, stunned by the persevering malig- 
nity of Tufton’s hatred; and saying merely, “It is a 
slander, my dear doctor, a foul slander and a lie ! ” he 
folded the note carelessly, and they went off to the presi- 
dent’s. 

A little later Tom was seen crossing the quadrangle 
towards his rooms. A wild crowd pounced upon him as 
he went, and plied him with eager questions. 

“ Plow is it? How is it, Hammersmith? Any hope? ” 

“Oh, it’s all right! I’m not going off,” said Tom 
quietly; and the crowd danced about him, and hugged 
him, and cheered (the usual demonstration of university 
joy, you will observe), till the quadrangle echoed with 
the noise of their shouts. 

“Why, what is the matter, Tom? You don’t seem 
particularly glad. Have you murdered old Brimblecom? ” 

“Not exactly. But the fact is, fellows, I am forbidden 
to row any more this term, and I was ” — 

“ Forbidden to row ! Good Lord, you don’t mean it ! 
Well, never mind, old fellow, cheer up ! We’ll fix that 
all right ! ” And, sure enough, the monster petition was 
produced (it had not yet been handed in) , its caption was 
altered completely, to cover an urgent appeal that Ham- 
mersmith might be allowed to retain his seat in the uni- 
versity crew, where his loss would be irreparable ; and the 
ong array of names was actually pasted below this prayer, 
and sent in to the faculty. 

But that august body had yielded points enough : on this 
it was inexorable. Glad as Tom was then to unpack 
his trunks, and settle once more into his old life (^his new 
life, I should say), and save himself and his poor mothei 


228 


HAMMERSMITH : 


the disgrace which had hung over him, it was with very 
bitter feelings and sad repining that he gave up his oar 
to Albertson that evening, and, standing at the boat- 
houses, saw the old boat go flashing down the river with- 
out him, under Miles’s long, swinging stroke. 

But Oriana did not so much think of Tom’s handing 
over a bit of pine timber to Albertson, and giving way to 
regrets and self-reproaches instead of “giving way’* 
under McGregor’s sharp orders in the boat: she was 
rather rejoiced that she had such a dear father, who was 
such a friend of young men, as well as such an intimate 
of Dr. Brimblecom’s ; and that the man who had saved 
her life had been rescued from suspension through en- 
treaties of her own. 

And the Tufton note, the real authors of the vandalism, 
and the Boggle promise to pay ? 

The note from “ X ” Tom did not show to a soul (for 
some days at least), excepting only Goldie, who had 
surely an equal right to know the source of the slander 
involving himself as well as Hammersmith, and who was 
drawn even more closely to Tom by learning how fatally 
and skilfully the unscrupulous diplomatist had tracked his 
victim all these weeks. Tufton must, of course, be still 
hiding in Boston. Woe to him if Hammersmith or 
Goldie should come upon him while this outrage is fresh 
in their minds ! • 

The faculty was by no means satisfied with its success 
in enforcing discipline ; and proceeding to decimate the 
class, and having already selected several entirely inno- 
cent men, including Albemarle and Freemantle, the real 
offenders were shamed into confession, came forward, and 
gave themselves up ; and Penhallow and two men who 
have not figured in this history were suspended for six 
months as the ringleaders. 

How the Boggle note would ever have been met, if i» 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


229 


had not been for a sudden apparition in the college -} T ard^ 
is hard to say. But when the time for the second pay- 
ment — the first three hundred dollars — was several days 
overdue, and old Boggle had left a greasy card of threats 
under Tom’s door, demanding immediate satisfaction under 
penalty of public disclosure and prosecution, Tom was at 
his wits’ end for some way out of his web. Suddenly, 
one afternoon, he heard a familiar volley of “ Gad, sirs ! ” 
under his window, and, rushing down, ran plump 'into the 
arms of his bronzed uncle Gayton, who was about mount- 
ing his stairway, stouter and grayer than when he had left, 
but jolly and opportune as ever. 

To learn Tom’s story, with all its important details, — 
which Tom told with shame not unmixed with a pleasant 
sense of relief, — and to run over his own roving history 
since he had left Tom so many months ago, was not the 
work of a single hour, or a single evening. It was a 
long story on Tom’s part : it was a merry, intermittent 
chronicle on the part of his uncle, — how he had sailed 
away to China with a sinking heart, and arrived to find 
his business going at sixes and sevens till he had put his 
own shoulders to the wheel, brought his sturdy business- 
head to bear on the matter, and had left, after a year, 
with prosperity showing its shiny face in his coffers, where 
before there had been ever-increasing elbow-room for panic. 

How the dear old philosopher laughed over Tom’s story, 
as its ridiculous incidents were told him ! How he amazed 
Tom by his easy reception of all the more distressing fea- 
tures of the business ! — the midnight imprisonment with 
old Boggle, the extorted note, the previous loan to Tufton, 
and my lord’s treachery throughout. He did his very 
philosophical best to control his mirth, and to look be- 
comingly severe at proper intervals , but his nephew alive 
and well before his eyes, an early appreciation that the 
business was not so bad as Tom would make out and as 


230 


HAMMER SMITH : 


tie had at first feared, and a not inexcusable or unaccount- 
able tinge of delight at finding the same old Hammersmith 
pluck and love of warfare and stiff-neckedness still crop- 
ping out, would not allow him to look on the serious side 
of the affair for long at a time, but tended to his exceed- 
ing merriment. 

“ So the old boy turned the key on you, that night, eh? 
Gad, sir, why didn’t you murder him? Ram liim into the 
closet, and elope over the roof-tops with the daughter, 
like young Lochinvar, who came up out of the West? 
Cambridge is to the westward, eh? Had his hand on a 
pistol ! What of that? I’ll tell you a story about a pis- 
tol some day, humph ! ’ ’ And he instinctively put his hand 
to his forehead. “Eh? Ferocious old party ! Death in 
his eye ! All the more glory in getting away with him ! 
The Hammersmith blood is only fairly aroused when it is 
pounding away in an uphill game ; didn’t you know that, 
my boy ? ’ ’ And the old fellow rattled on thus about 
Tom’s various experiences, cheering him amazingly with 
his merry treatment of it all, seeing that he cheered him, 
and so rollicking on with him, and chaffing him the more. 

Tom opened his heart to him, at last, as he had never 
expected to be able to do to anybody on the subject. He 
told him the whole sorry stor}^ of his connection with Tuf- 
ton : how he had been flattered at the first by his polite 
attentions and marked discrimination, led on by his pleas- 
ant suppers and wily tactics, going so far as to quarrel 
with Goldie, the best friend he had, on his account, and 
finally bringing up in this wretched Boggle business 
and Tufton’s slanderous accusation before the faculty ; 
and how he, Tom, had shamefully neglected his good 
Tiends, the Darbys and Fayerweathers and oummerdales, 
idl he was so inextricably involved with all this mass 
of intrigue, that he was ashamed to show his face among 
them, and didn’t see how he could ever regain his footing 
with them. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


231 


“ A bad fellow, a bad fellow, Tufton ! ” said Mr. Gray- 
ton. “ But a sly-witted schemer, Tom, a low-born, sly- 
witted schemer ! Gad, sir ! the way that class of men, 
with their cursed hypocrisy of good manners, and their 
showy seductions, pull the wool over the eyes of young 
fellows (and old fellows, too, for that matter, unless they 
know a thing or two) is something fearful ! Don’t take 
on about it, though, Tom, my boy. From your account, 
you must have plenty of company in your victimizing, 
eh? Eh? Malachite, Malachite — it must be the son of 
old Mrs. Malachite, flame of Minturn’s in the last century ! 
Gad ! but there’s a satanic grimness, a sort of poetic jus- 
tice, in the fellow’s bleeding you young rascals, and then 
inviting you to a feast provided by your own kindness, 
paid for out of your own pockets, eh ! A sort of Pelo- 
pean banquet, — isn’t that what you’d call it? A shrewd 
fellow, Tom, a devilish shrewd fellow ! The deuse of it is, 
how he could ever have kept it up so long. Two or three 
years ! Everybody glad enough to keep mum about his 
own folly, I suppose, and nobody daring to take the vil- 
lain by the beard, till you came along, Tom. So Breese 
did you a good turn, eh?” 

“ Yes : Breese is a good fellow, a mighty good fellow ! 
But, by Jove ! I wish I could have caught Tufton ! He 
wouldn’t have had ” — 

“Yes, yes, I know what you would have done, — 
thrashed him, as I saw you thrashing a sophomore on 
the Delta last year, — only you were on the under side ! 
for convenience of fighting, I suppose. You would have 
had a big row, an awful exposure, no end of scandal, 
your mother in tears, and you butting your head against 
a stone wall in despair ; while now we can manage it all 
well enougr . Tufton has gonfc, good riddance ! Boggle’s 
note we can manage, — money obtained under duress, — 
though I have a mind to take it out of your allowance, 


232 


HAMMERSMITH: 


you young reprobate, just for a lesson ! And, as for your 
never being able to regain your footing with your Cam- 
bridge friends, don’t you deceive yourself! Gad, man! 
what have you done to be ashamed of? My word for it, 
you’ll be received with open arms whenever you make 
your first bow in their parlors. Have I lost my footing 
with the good and the great ? Eh ? But you are sarcas- 
tic at times, I remember ; and you need not answer. My 
only fear is, that you will meet such an ovation that your 
silly young head will be turned, you rogue ! Nothing like 
an adventure and a little dubious glory to make way with 
the women, Tom ; though I would not inculcate that as a 
doctrine for young men to live up to : men find it out 
soon enough, Heaven knows ! ” 

And the soft-hearted old cosmopolitan was as good as 
his word ; sent Boggle a polite note, requesting him to 
call at Parker’s on very particular business ; received him 
as he might a prince, or an interior Chinaman from whom 
he hoped to buy a province full of tea ; led gradually up to 
the matter of Tom’s promise to pay, with the slow progress 
familiar to Oriental traders ; and then, by an exhibition of 
unexpected firmness, and knowledge of the law in the case, 
demanded the surrender of the paper in question. Boggle 
had of course refused to make this surrender, and rose to 
leave. 

“As you will,” said Mr. Hammersmith, shrugging his 
shoulders. “I invite you here as a gentleman; I treat 
you as a gentleman; I talk over the matter with you 
quietly ; we both know the follies of youth ; and you know 
as well as I do, that you have no shadow of right or law 
in demanding payment of that note. If you choose to 
meet the issue in a different spirit from that in which I 
approach it, of course I have no resource but to insist on 
ny rights. Relinquish that note at once, before to-mor- 
tow noon, with the one hundred dollars blood-money tha 4 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


233 

you have already received, or I have you arrested as a 
criminal, and publish you to the world as a — you know 
what! Good-day, sir.” And, bowing magnificently, he 
actually forced the mean-spirited actor out of the room 
by his grand manner, without allowing him further re- 
joinder. 

That very evening came a tobacco-scented note by the 
hand of a call-boy, restoring the promise to pay, but beg- 
ging indulgence in the matter of the hundred dollars. To 
which Mr. Hammersmith returned a cold answer in a few 
lines, to the effect that he thanked him for the paper ; 
that the paltry sum of a hundred dollars was not of suffi- 
cient account to be mentioned ; that he had better forget 
it, and every thing connected with this affair, except that 
he, Hammersmith, could see a little farther through a 
millstone than most sub-managers might think possible ; 
and that, if occasion arose at any time in the future, he 
might feel called upon to make known to the world (in- 
cluding the Boston) which patronized the theatrical pro- 
fession, exactly what he had discovered on the other side 
of that grindstone recently manipulated by himself and a 
certain Tufton. 

If the old gentleman was amused at the boy’s sprawl- 
ing signature at the bottom of the note surrendered, he 
was sad, in his way, at the thought of what the young 
man must have gone through in all these weeks of doubt 
and fear. But then he caught sight of the “value 
received” in the note, and went off into a merry fit of 
solitary laughter, which would have thrown my Lord Tuf- 
ton (judicious smiler !) into convulsions, had he seen its 
uncontrolled length. 

He brought the note post-haste to Tom next day, and 
delivered it with a speech of mock gravity, as if he were 
presenting his credentials to the Emperor of China, o~ 
handing Tom a death-warrant or a marriage-certificate. 


234 


HAMMERSMITH : 


or any thing else portentous, and twitted him on the 
phrase which had caught his eye. But Tom assured h m, 
on the word of a Hammersmith, that his honor was clear, 
that the family name had received no blot from him ; and 
his uncle quickly changed the subject by congratulating 
him on the happy termination of the Boggle imbroglio. 

“Halloo! what’s this?” said Tom, on receiving the 
awful document. “ Tufton’s handwriting, by all that’s 
holy! ” And, opening a letter-case, he took from it the 
small paper covering the fountain slander, and laid the 
two side by side. “I never noticed it when I signed it. 
The very same ! No one ever crossed a t like Tufton ; 
and there are the same old cursed flourishes ! ” 

The two men examined the papers ; no mistaking it ; 
Tufton’s ear-marks in both. 

“Funny I didn’t notice it that night,” said Tom. 
“Thought Boggle wrote it right before my eyes. Re- 
member now he turned his back to me. Hang him ! He 
had this in his pocket all the time ! Tufton must have 
written it in Cambridge, the wretch ! Or could he have 
written it in Miss Boggle’s very rooms ! ” — Good Heavens, 
the tom-cat ! The noise he had heard that night ! The 
excitement of the girl, when he had approached her dress- 
ing-room, and several lesser incidents that had occurred 
before and since ! Could it be that Tufton had a habit of 
secreting himself in that adjoining room, listening to all 
his twaddle and vows, while pretending that he hardly 
dared speak to the Boggle, much less go near her rooms 
for fear of her father ! 

But these last reflections were to himself ; and he saw 
no need of imparting this wretched phase of the business 
to his uncle, who would have been perhaps dangerously 
amused, to the verge of apoplexy, by the drollery of the 
tom-cat episode. So Tom shook these too persistent 
thoughts from him, and reiterated for the hundredth time 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


235 


the great, the unspeakable gratitude which he bore his 
uncle for all his kindness. 

The old gentleman said, “Pooh, pooh! It’s nothing! 
Only look after 3'ourself in the future, Tom, or I disown 
you ! ” and rattled off to his club, happy in the youngster, 
and revolving plans for his vacation. 

For despite the uncle’s jolly manner, which he thought 
the best way of receiving Tom’s pitiful tale, he was not a 
little disturbed at the young man’s saddened look, and 
general air of dejection and despair ; and he was planning 
what radical change of scenes and associations, for at 
least a part of Tom’s summer vacation, would be best 
calculated to restore him to himself, before he should 
return to his mother’s too watchful eyes. Thus cogitating, 
he drew up at his club, met Shaw going up the steps, and 
the two old classmates joined forces, and soon agreed 
upon a summer’s lark, in which Tom, and perhaps some 
of his friends, should accompany them. 

Penhallow, then, had been suspended, and Tom was 
again alone, — lonely in that deeper sense in which 
widowhood is lonelier than celibacy, as Winthrop says. 
The faculty had sent a not altogether unwelcome letter to 
Penhallow ’s family, regretting the occurrence which had 
compelled his departure, testifying to Pen’s general excel- 
lence of deportment, and favorable influence in Cambridge, 
but intimating that this particular offence was of so aggra- 
vated a nature that it could not, in justice to good disci- 
pline, be passed over lightly. 

“ Good-by, old fellow!” said Penhallow, bursting in 
upon Tom, several days after his departure from Cam- 
bridge. Tom was busy on a letter to his mother, to whom 
his thoughts turned more often now, as he was freed more 
and more from his entanglement. “Good-by: I’m not 
•joining back, as I had jroposed. Going to California 
uext week.” 


236 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“Nonsense, Pen: you must come back! What am 1 
going to do without you? ” said Tom. 

“O Lord Harr}", you’ll survive! I’m not such a 
heart-breaker as that. Never knew it before, at any rate ! 
Fact is, this life is too slow for me. I can’t screw all 
this Greek and Latin into my head ; and what should I do 
with it, if I could? I’m too fond of horses and out-door 
life, old fellow ; and I think you are too. An old friend of 
mine, Bob Simmons, — you’ve heard me speak of him, — 
has a big ranch out near Santa Barbara, or Los Angeles, 
or some place there, — no end of horses and cattle ; and 
I’m going out to join him. Governor’s going to set me 
up, if I like it ; and you see if I don’t have you out there 
too, some day, or I am vastly mistaken in you, Tom ! It’s 
a glorious wild life, — in the saddle most of the time, and 
a little scrimmage with the natives now and then, a sort of 
half-breed Mexican and Indian, Simmons writes Perkins. 
Just the kind of life you and I have often talked of, 
shut up in these old walls. Ilur-rah ! By the way, I’m 
going to leave ‘Baldy’ for you, Tom, if you want him, — 
the horse you liked so much last year. He’s been out to 
pasture for some weeks ; but I had him up yesterday, and 
he’s a stunner, I tell j^ou ! You’ll take him, and think of 
me when you ride, Tom? Old Windgall will take good 
care of him for you : Freemantle says they’re very par- 
ticular with his mare, and I’m sure she always looks like 
a piece of satin. Say you’ll take him, Tom, and I’ll have 
him brought over at once, when he’s shod, or keep him up 
till next term; just as you say. Saddle, bridle, every 
thing, of course, my dear fellow. Simmons says our rig 
is of no use out there, with their Mexican horses. They 
have some peculiar saddles and bits of the'r own, — very 
cruel bits, I hear.” 

And with some protestation and very many thanks 
Tom at last accepted the present of the very beautifu 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


237 


bay that he had ridden several times with great satisfac- 
tion ; and Penhallow, with much characteristic enthusiasm 
over his new career, and many hopes that Tom might join 
him in the Far West some day, took up his “ connections ” 
with the university, and was soon embarking from New- 
York, via Panama, for the ranch-life of which he knew so 
little, and expected so much ; not before he had sat down 
to a farewell dinner in his honor, however, and had been 
toasted, and sung over, and wept over, by a dozen or 
more of his friends, whom Hammersmith and Goldie, 
masters of the feast, had invited to bid their popular 
classmate farewell, and wish him good voyage. 


238 


HAMMERSMITH : 


CHAPTER XV. 


A SUMMER CRUISE, 


“ Sad or sinful is the life of that man who finds not the heavens bluer and thi 
waves more musical in maturity than in childhood.” — Higginson. 

“ Weary and sick of our hooks, we come to repose in your eyelight, 

As to the woodland and water, the freshness and beauty of Nature.” — Clough. 



OW Hammersmith lived through the humiliation of 


-I — L leaving the university crew in this enforced manner ; 
how he received a measure of consolation in the tremen- 
dous reputation which the greater publicity of his previous 
entanglements brought him ; how magnanimous he was, on 
hand every evening at the boat-houses to help the crew off, 
following them again and again in a single-scull or pair 
oar, coaching them, and getting them in form for the 
coming struggle ; how he called on Professor Darby, and 
thanked him effusively for his kind intercession with the 
faculty in his behalf (Goldie having advised him of the 
professor’s intervention, though saying nothing of a cer- 
tain other more gentle pleader, whose words had affected 
the parental heart still more than Goldie’s classmate 
appeal) ; and how, at length, the great race came off at 
Worcester, and Harvard was beaten by a couple of 
lengths, though pulling a plucky race, with two men on 
the sick-list, lapping Yale several times in its course, — all 
this 13 well known to college-men of the da} r , but must be 
passed over lightly here. 

Ton-, is not especially proud of referring to this period 
of the world’s history and his own. lie cannot help feel- 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


289 


ing that if he had been in the crew that fatal day, instead 
of yelling himself hoarse on the banks, among his univer- 
sity men, the order of the boats at the finish might have 
been quite reversed. Men were saying so freely about 
him, why should he not feel as they did, conscious as 
he was of a tingling strength in his muscles that would 
have rejoiced to be displaying itself in the old place be- 
hind Goldie, and sure as he was that he would have had 
the staying-power to carry him through the race, and not 
be a dead- weight half the. way, as Albertson had been? 
He was beside himself when he saw the boats come leap- 
ing down the lake, Yale perceptibly in advance : he oould 
have brained a knot of Yale men at his elbow, who were 
cheering like madmen, and throwing their blue-ribboned 
hats in the air. Why will men be such fools, he thought? 
But he could have cried when Goldie, that evening, sit- 
ting in his room at the Bay State House, said sorrow- 
fully, - 

“Ah, Tom! if you had only been there! It was the 
one thing I thought of through the whole race ; and I put 
on every pound of weight I could, for your sake and my 
own. Albertson didn’t so much as pull his own weight, all 
the way from the turning-stake down.” 

“ I know it, I know it ! ” said Tom. “ But don’t let's 
speak of it, George. I could see it perfectly from the 
bank ; and I was so blind with rage at myself and my 
beastly folly, that I could have shot myself. I shall never 
row again.” 

“ Oh, yes, you will ! ” said Goldie. “ You’ll pull next 
year, and senior year too ; and we shall beat old Yale as 
she was never beaten before, for the defeat this year! ” 
And the dear old warrior, who was to be stroke of the 
’Varsity himself next year, God willing, grew quite elo- 
quent over the prospect of having Tom behind hha, as he 
had hoped to have him in this race. 


240 


HAMMERSMITH : 


But Tom insisted and declared, and insisted over again, 
that he should never pull again, never, unless to paddle 
for his own amusement, as Pinckney did, and as Breese 
was beginning to do ; but as for racing, no, he should 
never pull another race. Vows of youth are often broken, 
however — more’s the pity ! — as this chronicle shows, and 
as your own heart will tell you, unfortunate reader, if 
perad venture, you have a beard. If not, far be it fro:? 
me to hint that broken troth and forgotten promises are 
scattered in yom wake — a has the thought ! 

Mr. Gayton, his friend Shaw, and numbers of other 
Harvard men, were on hand at Worcester, grieving in the 
defeat, to be sure, but hardly taking the matter so much 
to heart as the interested youngsters, for whom it meant 
world- wide disgrace and another up-hill year of training 
and subscription-raising in Cambridge. Mr. Gayton, for 
his part, as we might expect, knowing him even so little 
as we do, took the whole matter in so merry a mood, that 
the crew — whom he entertained sumptuously the follow- 
ing evening, with many other college-men — were quite 
carried away by his genial manner and cordial bonhomie , 
voting him a “ brick ” when they separated that night, as 
their predecessors, and some few of themselves, had done 
once before, so long ago, at Parker’s. 

It was with the same bustling merriment that he bade 
Tom write from Worcester to his mother, to say that he 
would not be home till towards the end of vacation, as 
uncle Gayton was to take him on a little cruise ; and to 
beg her not to worry, for he was “ all right.” And then 
he said impulsively, “Give me the pen, my boy!” and 
added this postscript to Tom’s letter : — 

My dear Emily, — Shaw and I are going off for a month’s 
yachting along the coast, and have kidnapped Tom and his friend 
Goldie. Do not get into a fret about him, or dwell on the s^d 
sea waves and “sich” too often: it’s a briny subject. The fail 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


241 


is the fellow has had a pretty hard year, with his chemistry and 
anthropology, and some private studies that he has been taking ; 
and I thought it would do him good to have a breath of salt air 
for a few weeks. He’s as handsome as ever, and as fine a young 
Hammersmith as any of the line, excepting always two, my dear 
Emily. My love to Mabel and Dick. Tell Dick he may appropri- 
ate the cane that I left the other day, against the time of need : 
I have a room full of them ; useless to send it on. 

With sentiments of distinguished consideration, as the diplo- 
mates say, I am, my dear Emily, 

Always yours, 

Gayton. 

“ No, no, you rascal ! you needn’t read that,” said the 
uncle. “ Seal it up, and drop it in the post. Gad, sir! 
would you rob the mail? ” And Tom laughed, and posted 
the letter to his mother. 

She, dear soul, read it sadly but hopefully, trusting 
that her dear boy had not been ruining his health by too 
close application to his studies, of which she had heard 
such mournful examples. Anthropology and private 
studies ! Why was not the dear boy content with the 
regular course, instead of taking more work upon himself? 
Ah, Gay ton, ingenious Gayton ! matching diplomacy with 
diplomacy, the wiles of Tufton with the pardonable sub- 
terfuge of a fond uncle. If all deception were as innocent 
and well-meant as yours ! 

So these four stalwart gentlemen coursed up and down 
the bold-dropping New-England coast that summer now 
long past, continuing their cruise as far as Mount Desert, 
and bringing back so full reports of its exceeding attrac- 
tiveness, that they consider themselves in no small meas- 
ure responsible for the vast patronage which that pretty 
bit of Eastern wilderness has since received, — a bit 
indeed, O Philippus ! on your grand Occidental standard. 

To Tom, at least, who had never been on the ocean 
before, or felt its great heart throbbing under him, but 


242 


HAMMERSMITH : 


had only watched the pulses in its beautiful arms, the 
Hudson and the Charles, this freer excursion, this breezy 
liberty of sailing, was a novelty very refreshing to the 
spirits. How far off and unreal his bitter experience, his 
close life in Cambridge, seemed to him ! And how he 
braced himself to new resolves under the influence of the 
genial company, the mighty ocean-breaths which blew 
upon them, the removal from the scene of his late esca- 
pades ! 

Let me not seem to exaggerate the effect of his un- 
happy sophomore experience on the youth Hammersmith. 
Everybody, I fear, is bound to discover, sooner or later, 
that the fair round world is honeycombed with deceit and 
treachery. Whether the head be gray, or the cheeks still 
ruddy, when the discovery is ns-do, the shock is sure to 
come, and something very tender and valuable is sure to 
be lost. But a comprehensive plot, a personal warfare, 
against an unsuspecting youth, whose eyes have only just 
opened upon real life among his fellows, does it not bring 
a staggering revelation and a blinding sense of malignity 
quite foreign to slower and later discoveries ? 

Happy the youth who at such a time can have some 
tiuch cheering presence as Mr. Gayton Hammersmith to 
break in upon the murky doubts with which he is sur- 
rounded ! God bless the dear old Gayton and his cheer- 
ful philosophy ! Bless him for his quick intuition that 
what his nephew needed was not sanctimonious reproof, 
but wholesome sympathy and vigorous affection ! In the 
broad-shouldered 3*0 ung student pacing the deck of the 
“ Moll Pitcher,” knitting his brow over the problem which 
life had set him, and taking a fresh grip upon resolution 
(even as the old skipper at the helm is grasping afresh the 
straining tiller) , 3 T ou would hardly recognize the 3’ounger 
Hammersmith of the time of Mr. Andrew Pipon, the 
graceful } r oung rider of those thoughtless days. Life was 


HIS HARVARD I) Am 


243 


bo honest, so straightforward, so filled with rainbows then, 
in those happy days wiien he chased the merry hours along 
the banks of the Hudson, free-hearted as a centaur ! 
What were calm evenings and gorgeous sunsets, purple 
mountain-outline, and fair, fleeting seasons, to him then! 
And now they were working an influence of which he had 
never dreamed before, and were quieting the troubled 
spirit of Hammersmith as he had never expected it to be 
quieted again, on that bitter day when he sat in his Mas- 
sachusetts window-seat, and heard his uncle’s volley of 
u Gad, sirs ! ” in the quadrangle below. 

“ How far away and unreal the Cambridge life seems ! ” 
said Hammersmith to Goldie, as they were scudding 
through the waters of Frenchman’s Bay one gusty mid- 
afternoon. The young men were lying on the leeward 
side of the yacht, enveloped in pea-jackets, smoking and 
talking intermittently as they skirted the picturesque 
shores. “ It seems ysar3 since that cursed evening when 
we were hauled up before the faculty. And as for Tufton, 
bah ! I should imagine it was in some bygone century 
that the villain left Cambridge that rainy day, like a thief 
in the night.” 

“ May I trouble you for a light? Thanks ! ” said Gol- 
die. ‘ 4 So it does. And I can hardly decide which I like 
better, — grinding away in Cambridge, or skimming along 
this glorious coast with you and your jolty uncle, old boy.” 

“ I know perfectly well which I like best,” answered 
Tom. And then, after a pause, he asked, u George, what 
did you think of me all those long months when I was 
making such a condemned fool of myself? What did the 
fellows think? ” 

“ Well, I don’t know. There are always plenty of fel- 
lows to be glad when another fellow’s going to the devil, 
as they think. But I think a good many men were mighty 
sorry to see the way that Tufton seemed to be getting an 


244 


HAMMER SMITH : 


influence over you ; and yet they knew 3 T ou too well to 
dare to say a word to you about it. Breese, I know, for 
one, was deusedly wrought up about it, and came to see 
me several times about the matter. But you knew I was 
bound to stand it out as long as you would ; and I gave 
him to understand that you could paddle your own canoe, 
for all I cared.” 

“ Yes, yes. But we’ve talked that all up, George ; and 
I am sure yon were justified in keeping away from me. 
But what will everybody think of me ? — your cousin, and 
the Fayerweathers, and others. Do you suppose they 
hear all the college-gossip? ” 

“Well, I hardly know,” answered Goldie, smiling. 
“ I’m afraid the college-halls don’t keep their secrets a3 
well as they might, old fellow. But what if they do 
know of your troubles? There’s nothing to be ashamed 
of, as far as I have heard them.” 

“Oh, but I was such a donkey, George! Come, tell 
me ; how much, for instance, of my Boggle affair did you 
ever hear? ” 

“ Nothing very definite ; only that you were considera- 
bly smashed with that little Lee girl to whom Tufton 
introduced you, and that the ‘ cruel parient ’ popped in on 
you, per order of Tufton, just in time to extort that note 
from you. Of course there were all sorts of wild rumors 
of duels and encounters, and so forth. But freshmen 
$re easily excited at a little scandal, and I am sure no- 
body ever really believed there was any harm in the affair : 
they mostly knew that it was a put-up job of Tufton’ s, 
and a very neat one too.” 

“ Did you never hear any particulars of my meeting 
with old Boggle, and how the girl behaved? ” 

“ Never, except, as I say, through these vague rumors.” 

“ Let me tell you, then, and about how the little minx 
led me on from week to week. Gad, what a blind idiot 1 


HIS HAK^HD DAYS. 


24 $ 

was! ” And Hammersmith went on to detail to Goldie 
all the miserable history which we have seen him enacting 
in the Joy-street court ; and the unburdening himself 
seemed an infinite relief, after all these weeks of solitary 
brooding. 

Goldie was intensely amused ; so Tom rattled on, inter- 
spersing his story with much bitter self-reproach, and yet 
much relieved to find that the clear-headed Goldie, whom 
he had taken for such a straight-laced Puritan, did not 
look upon his escapades as damning him forever in the 
eyes of his friends. When Tom came to the tom-cat 
insinuation, and intimated that my Lord Tufton was 
undoubtedly the animal in question, with his ear at the 
kejLole on the other side of the dressing-room door, and 
that all Tom’s tender vows and boyish twaddle had been 
poured forth merely to amuse that back-stairs diplomate, 
Goldie was vastly tickled. He threw his cigar into the 
sea, and roared with delight at the farcical situation ; Tom 
joining in his merriment with no ill grace, now that he was 
well out of the scrape, but stopping suddenly, and saying 
sternly, — 

“ Hang the rascal ! Let me run across him again some 
day, and we’ll see if he puts his ear to keyholes again ! 
By the way, I gave Pen ccirte-blanche to murder him, and 
charge the affair to my account, if he ever met him in 
lis travels. I give you the same commission, George ; 
and between the three of us I hope the scoundrel will get 
a good square pounding, to say the least, before he dies.” 

A sleepy head, ornamented with a jaunty Oriental cap, 
appeared up the gangway a3 they were laughing ; and a 
roice said, gaping the while, — 

“Gad, sir ! I thought we had run into a shoal of por- 
poises, or taken aboard a mermaid 4 with a comb and a 
glass in her hand, hand, hand ! ’ What’s the row? Skip- 
per, the hours between two and four are sacredly set apart 


246 


HAMMERSMITH : 


for slumber on this craft ; and I beg you will enforce the 
order to the utmost, and pitch these young reprobates into 
the sea, if they persist in roaring like sea-calves at im- 
proper moments. Do you hear ? ’ ’ And scowling fearfully, 
in mock gravity of manner, at the culprits, Mr. Gayton 
disappeared. The skipper shouted, “Ay, ay, sir!” and, 
shaking his head at the young men, put the yacht about, 
and made a rapid run back to their moorings at Bar 
Harbor. 

Four weeks, then, of lazy cruising along the grandest of 
their country’s coasts, four weeks of the genial Shaw, the 
“Duke,” and large-hearted Goldie, and'Tom was bowling 
home to the small family on the Hudson, — bowling home 
with a kit of clothing densely odorous of brine, and with a 
feeling that his world was pushed a little farther into sun- 
shine by his summer’s merry outing, and that Mr. Gayton 
Hammersmith was about the most satisfactory uncle that 
could be imagined. 

To the mother and the rest he was a man full grown 
as he burst in upon their quiet life in latter August. He 
was a man, because he had passed through an educating 
experience that had aged him, and opened his eyes, and 
given strength to the outlines of his character. He was a 
man, because he had conquered himself and the ogre Cir- 
cumstance, with whom he had to battle (conquered through 
the aid of kind allies, to be sure) , and showed in his very 
air that he was not afraid to join issue again with the same 
odds. But he was the same warm-hearted son and broth- 
er as before, with more gentleness and less bumptiousness, 
n fact. Yet the fond mother, not content with his manly 
growth and his safe return, now began to harass her mind 
by looking forward to that nearing time when he would be 
through his college-course, and be ready to take his man’s 
part in the world ; for then, she felt sure, would corns, 
the separation which would he only next to final for hn, 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


247 


when other interests — the busy world, perhaps an early 
home of his own — would claim him, and she would have 
no right to resist. 

Ah ! “ the life of a parent is the life of a gambler/ ’ as 
Sydney Smith has said. This too anxious little mother of 
the nineteenth century was no exception to the long line 
that have watched every turn of the game, every flutter of 
change in their venturous offspring, with awful interest, 
since time began. If some gentle power could only assure 
them when all is well, and anxiety needless ! But the 
Tates seem to order otherwise ; and the tender souls go 
on watching and praying, and wearing their lives out with 
bitter doubt, while their sons prance through the world 
regardless, meeting their solicitude with “the light scoff 
of commerce. ,, Would that the solicitude were appreci- 
ated ! But youth is confident and brave, sufficient for its 
own hearty times ; and who shall tell them that these will 
not always last? 

So the good mother wavered between joy and apprehen- 
sion, — joy at her handsome boy returned, filling the home 
with sunshine ; tremulous apprehension of the shadowy 
future. For the Past alone is secure ; the Present slips 
ever with closing eyes into its dark chambers, and the 
tliree Sisters spin in silence, unobserved of men. 


248 


HAMMERSMITH : 


CHAPTER XVI. 

JUNIOR YEAR, WITH A SECOND PHILIPPIC FROM BREESE. 


“As to [people in] society, . . . eternal and tedious botheration is their notion 
of happiness, sensible pursuits their ennui! ” — Charlotte Bronte. 

“ All honeste hartes ought to prosecute their good attemptes and contempue 
the ballynge of dogged curres.” — Robert Records, Whetstone of Wit, 1557. 

“ Let the Songs be Loud, and Cheerefull, and not Chirpings, or Pu lings.” 


Bacon. 



'OTHING- succeeds better than success,” says the 


French proverb. Applause is so easy, when genius 
stirs itself, and provokes the attention of the rabble ! 
Jones is so anxious to have you to dine when your book 
or your gold-mine pays, or your speech in Congress has 
electrified the nation (for a brief hour) : “ My dear fellow, 
I always said you had it in you ; you were only biding 
your time. There has been nothing like it for years ! ” 
Beauty smiles so sweetly when the hero of the hour ducks 
before her, bright with honors. The streets echo, the world 
hums, and weak men are carried off their feet, when the 
popular current seizes on the happy result of their labori- 
ous days, and dubs it a wonderful thing. A man needs 
to stand modestly at the centre of things, with his eyes 
to ti e ground, before the cheers of the mob. So much 
more difficult to bear is success than defeat. 

Breese, self-centred, complacent, heroic, was in little 
danger of being moved by the fame and prominence 
which his scholarly habits had brought him. He had 
come up to Cambridge with tolerably defined ideas of 
what he was seeking, and what course of life he proposed 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


249 


to live. He had been fairly successful in his first year, 
and made his mark already as a hard-working student of 
more than ordinary talent. If his kangaroo race in the 
football game, and his solitary floating coat-tail, have 
seemed to define him as an eccentric specimen of the 
student class, the implication is wide of the truth. Eccen- 
tric he was, in a certain sense, as being original and non- 
conforming, and magnificently strong in his convictions : 
otherwise he was in no especial way to be distinguished 
from a hundred stalwart Harvard men of his day and 
generation, — clear-eyed, muscular, thoughtful, scorning 
delights, and living laborious days, and by his second and 
third year so far assimilated in dress and manner to the 
men about him as to pass for a Harvard man, or at least 
a Bostonian, on the most distant prairies of the West; 
so generalizing is the dress-power and the deportment of 
the university, and so unconsciously had Breese slipped 
from the rather uncouth manners and garments of his 
early freshman year into conformity with the average mass 
about him. A scholarship which he had secured at the 
end of his first year had enabled him to dress with a more 
comfortable plainness, and supply his rooms with several 
things sadly needed before. His association with Goldie 
and Albemarle, Pinckney and Hammersmith, in “The 
Forum,” his relation to Hammersmith in the Tufton de- 
noument (which was soon noised about), and a hearty 
interest in college sports and victories, which separated 
him widely from the race of “digs” pure and simple, 
conspired to render him a far from obscure man in his 
class ; although his original way of looking at things, and 
a certain unexpectedness, which never allowed you to 
know exactly how he stood on any matter till he had de- 
clared himself, prevented him maxing those ardent friend- 
ships, and gaining that quick popularity, which men of 
more fluent natures were apt to meet. 


250 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Of all the phases of college-life, — its successes, its 
failures, its fiery ambitions, its rivalries, its strongly- 
cemented friendships, — there is none which calls foi 
more admiration (although not always gaining it) than the 
spectacle of a patient worker like Breese, coming up 
unknown, unheralded by fame from the great schools, and 
steadily advancing to the front by dint of native force and 
indomitable nerve. Popularity, social pleasures, extrava- 
gant dressing, fine living, are nothing to him ; nor are the 
slights and eloquent silence of men who think themselves 
above him, who look askant, or with withering directness, 
at his coarse clothes, and think themselves very clever 
in deciding his position in life, present and to come, by 
the cut of his coat. How the tables are often turned on 
the gilded critics of those early times ! How successful 
scholars and u digs,” risen to eminence, might gloat over 
their former detractors, if the spectacle of failure were not 
too miserable for self-pluming ! But perhaps the sweet- 
est thing in all college-file is that class feeling, which, 
after years of graduation, reduces all honors and dignities 
to the common plane of youthful equality, or seeming 
equality ; when judges and ministers, envoys-extraor- 
dinary, and gentlemen who are plenipotentiary in more 
humble stations, merchants, doctors, pedagogues, artists, 
poets, take pfi* their mantles, and appear again, on com- 
mencements and at re-unions of classes, as the plain Bobs 
and Joes of a less discriminating era ; when men who 
have undershot their mark are met as though they had 
made a 3’earty bull’s-eye, and rivalries are forgot, and 
small men feel themselves great, and great men see no 
especial good in their greatness, and the world’s work is 
taken up again with fighter heart and a sense of better 
appreciation. Heaven be praised for this cheering com 
umnity of feeling ! 

When, then, the lists of his second year came out, ano 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


251 


Breese was found to lead his class by an easy first, his 
reception among his fellows and his professors was quite 
different from that accorded him at his entrance on the 
college-field. He was a power now : he was booked for 
first place in the Phi Beta Kappa ; his chances for a summa 
cum laude at graduation were freely canvassed ; and a less 
self-poised man might have been prone to forge c his high 
ideals in the babble of praise which his high rank pro- 
voked, to mistake shadow for substance, and think him- 
self an earth-shaking power for gaining what he really 
considered empt}^ college-honors, bawbles of no possible 
use in the man's work which he had set for himself after 
graduation. He little knew what fate awaited him, and 
how his resolution to fit himself for his country’s service, 
and to interest himself primarily in affairs of government 
and national politics, was destined to be turned into quite 
another and more turbulent channel foaming redly. But 
who knows his own fate a year, or an hour, in advance ? 
And who shall say that all previous living and resolving 
are vain, if they lead up to one grand deed, however 
postponed ? 

Differing widely from him in tastes and temperament, 
and yet akin in a certain zest and heartiness, infusing 
every thing which he undertook, Hammersmith — now that 
he had turned his back on hie old life, with its bitter mem- 
ories, never to be quite loot — was drawn singularly to 
this heroic man working out his own problem so sturdily. 
By a natural impulse common to vigorous natures, Tom 
inclined, without knowing it, from one extreme to another ; 
and, having escaped from the purple lanes where my Lord 
Tufton would have delighted to lead him, he was drawn 
irresistibly to the philosopher Breese, pacing the hilltops, 
and lifting his brow to the skies, — Breese, who had done 
aim a kind office in the Boggle imbroglio , and into whose 
scholarly, solitary life, he had had occasional glimpses in 
die past two years. 


252 


HAMMERSMITH : 


It was a temporary enthusiasm of Tom’s. It could 
hardly last. But for a while, at least, he had thoughts of 
becoming a mighty scholar, giving up society completely, 
never rowing again of course, — as he had made a vow 
to that effect, — and cultivating Breese and men of his 
sort. Some such idea of the evanescent nature of Ham- 
mersmith’s moods may have entered Breese ’s mind ; but 
he said nothing about it. And when Tom, several weeks 
after the luxurious junior year had begun, came to beg 
that Breese would coach him in his chemistry for a few 
weeks (as he declared he was lamentably behind-hand) , 
Breese could not refuse his request, though begrudging 
the time sadly. 

“ I tell 3 T ou what it is, Breese,” said Tom, one day not 
long after this. “I’m going to make you change your 
life ! Do you want to know how ? ” 

“I have no objection to considering it, merely in the 
abstract. But I doubt your success. I’m a pretty 
crooked stick to deal with,” answered Breese. 

“It’s nothing very tremendous,” said Tom. “I’m 
simply going to make you go out into society with me. 
It isn’t right for you to shut yourself up here all the 
time.” 

“Heavens, do I? I have at least a five-mile walk 
every day, or a row equally long, and plenty of dumb- 
bells and clubs in wet weather.” 

“ That’s all well enough ! But I don’t mean that you 
need exercise or outing especially. Everybody knows 
you’re about the strongest man in the class, except Cleg- 
horn ; and he’s so lubberly, that he’s no use in a boat or 
cricket. But you’ll grow morbid if you don’t go out 
wnong people more.” 

“ Grow what ! ” shouted Breese, standing up, and look- 
ing comically at Hammersmith. “ Morbid ! Bless you, I 
don’t know what the word means ! ” And the stern-faced 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


253 


scholar laughed heartily, and caught up a huge dumb-bell 
from the corner of his room, and twirled it over his head, 
Tom certainly thought, as he looked at the healthy fellow, 
with colorless cheeks to be sure (but then he had never 
had much color in his face) , eyes as clear as a horse’s, 
firm flesh, and every indication of perfect physique, that 
he had chosen an ill word to express himself withal. 

“Well, you know what I mean,” continued Tom. 
“Digging away in your room here is all very well: no- 
body knows it better than I, though you may smile at 
my saying so. Leading the class is very well: it’s a 
mighty big honor, such a class as we have, by Jove ! But 
don’t you think a fellow grows a little rusty and cobwebby, 
if he don’t brush himself about among people a little? ” 

“Hold on a minute: let’s see what you mean. You 
say society at one time, people at another. Society and 
people are quite different matters.” 

“What in the world do you mean? Put down that 
dumb-bell ! I’m afraid of you, Breese,” said Tom. 

“ Society, so called, is a machine : people are men and 
women with heads on, and the ability to use them. That’s 
ah.” 

“ ’Pon my word,” said Tom. “ Then you mean that 
I am in the habit of promenading with mowing-machines, 
md taking tea occasionally with a very charming and 
domestic sewing-machine, and so on ! Come, Breese, 
you’re too severe ! ” 

“You’ve chosen your own kind of machines,” said 
Breese ; “ though some men do find that they have been 
frisking and capering with mowing-machines most de- 
cidedly ! I mean simply, that in society such as you are 
thinking of, every thing is cut and dried, everybody is 
like everybody else ; and, as Emerson says, 1 Society 
everywhere is in conspiracy against the manhood of every 
one of its members.’ There is no play for individuality, 


254 


HAMMERSMITH : 


A man might as well whistle to the sea as try to get anj 
benefit from the fashionable powwows that are in vogue.” 

“But don't you consider that light-heartedness and 
free movement, yes, and a hearty exchange of merest 
small-talk, are good for a man?” asked Hammersmith. 

“Most decidedly. But is there no danger of its all 
relapsing into light-heartedness and merest tittle-tattle, 
and nothing else? — the society that you fellows frequent, 
I mean, of course. Heavens ! I believe, if I had only 
a bit of Albertus Magnus’s skill, I could make a brazen 
man like his, that would answer all the purposes of ordi- 
nary flummery. He should have an adjustable dorsal 
spring to admit of the most elaborate bowing and scrap- 
ing, a right arm capable of describing circles of various 
diameters (for obvious convenience at your dances) , and 
the most tireless of brass feet. Then with an evening - 
suit, a pair of gloves, and a few short phrases, such as 
‘ Yes, it’s very warm,’ ‘ May I have a turn? ’ ‘ Thanks, 
you’re very kind,’ 4 How can you say so, my dear Miss 
Blank ! ’ my man, I venture to say, would make as pre- 
sentable an appearance as the average of your young 
bucks, eh? ” 

“By Jove!” said Tom, laughing heartily, “you’ve 
mistaken your calling, Breese. You should try a society- 
novel, or run a tilt at evening parties in general.” 

“No, but seriously, Hammersmith: I’m more than 
half in earnest. People, men and women with something 
to say ; a dinner, if you will, to provoke conversation, and 
warm cold natures ; a musical party, with really good 
music, — well, I’ll throw in a dancing party or two for a 
season, that will do very well, — show me such a society 
as that, and if you have the entree , and can smuggle me 
in, I will join you with all m3* heart. But }*our intermi- 
nable whirling and gossiping and nandy-panfl^fism, bah / 
V r oung ladies at home, in the bosom of their families, 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


25 ft 


where they can meet a man tranquilly and talk a half- 
minute without distraction by music, or by some per 
fumed teetotum begging permission to whirl them about 
the room, — they are in their place, they are rational. On 
horseback, too, as I have seen Miss Darby several time,'? 
this year, or rowing even, or taking care of the sick, 
or doing any thing else that they can in a sensible, wo- 
manly way, I can respect them, and worship them (at a 
distance) , and confess that every thing else in the world 
seems clumsy and unlovely in comparison.” 

“ Good for you ! Go on ! ” said Hammersmith. 

“But Miss What-do-ye-call-em at an evening-part}^” 
continued Breese, not apparently hearing Tom, “ hopping 
through a waltz with some extremely miserable specimen 
of our own sex, or screeching at the piano, with a young 
swell twiddling the leaves of her song, and turning in the 
wrong place invariably, both looking very warm and uncom- 
fortable — is there stronger evidence of insanity ? And 
a pair of young spoons playing at love-making, and mak- 
ing fools of” — 

“By Jove, Breese! put on the brakes, if — you — • 
please,” said Tom. “ Let me have a word ! You can 
beat me in stating your case, any day ; but I protest against 
your giving this as a correct version of Cambridge society. 
It sounds mightily like Thackeray’s style of looking at 
tilings.” 

“ I confess that I may have had his tirade in ‘ Men and 
Coats ’ in mind ; for I am fond of it : and I think he hit 
the nail on the head, in exclaiming against the absurd 
entertainments going under the name of evening-parties.” 

“ Yes ; but he was thinking of great London, metropoli- 
tan scrimmages of the most mixed character, — no end 
of officers leaning in the door-ways, ogling and criticising 
the crowd, and all that sort of tiling.” 

“ It’s a difference in quality, not in kind certainly,” 
said Breese. 


256 


HAMMERSMITH . 


“ No : it’s a difference in both. It has no more to do 
with Cambridge parties than the man in the moon. I 
don’t pretend that we talk philosophy, or read Hebrew 
without the points, or discuss thorough-bass, by way of 
amusement ; but I do say that there is no flummery, or 
nonsense, or extravagant folly of any kind whatever. And 
as for hopping through a waltz, my dear fellow, you will 
excuse me, but you are extremely wide of the mark. The 
waltz is the most graceful and smooth of dances ; and the 
way they dance it here, gliding through it with the evenest 
possible motion, is the most beautiful thing I ever saw of 
the kind.” 

“I do not stop at technicalities,” said Breese, with a 
wave of his hand. “Flummery, sugar-plums, gabble- 
gabble, hoppity-skip, screeching, idiocy, it’s all the same. 
When you tell me that I shall be rusty and cobwebby, 
if I do not — what did you say ? — rub myself up in such 
a mess of twaddle, Heavens, I have a private notion that 
rust and cobwebs are better than vacuity ! And I must 
saj-, give me these meaty old worthies between covers 
here,” waving his hand towards his row of favorite books, 
— “ give me these and my walking-stick, and let who will 
take care of society. Society! ” 

“ Now, see here, Breese, I’ll convict you out of your 
own mouth. Wasn’t your whole argument, in that speech 
of yours in ‘ The Forum ’ last year, in favor of keeping 
au courant with the times, and cutting loose from the past? 
And here you are, arguing in favor of shutting yourself up 
with }’our books and your thoughts, and not coming out to 
mingle with the people of your own times at all ! ” 

“ Gracious heavens ! 4 People of your own time * ! My 
dear Hammersmith, did it ever occur to you in your wild- 
est moment of festive happiness, that you were keeping 
abreast of the times, and deserving well of the republic 
when 3 r ou were prancing, or gliding about, as you say, 01 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


257 


talking nonsense to a young butterfly, in the park rs here- 
abouts? That’s precisely the trouble. The people of oui 
times are about quite other business ; and the danger is, 
that you become so infatuated with this thin splendor as 
never to appreciate any thing more solid. Eut I beg par- 
don for appearing to be personal. When I say you, I 
mean those who think like you, of course.” 

“Oh! that’s all right,” answered Tom. “I’ve no 
doubt that much you say is true, Breese ; only I am so 
constituted that I must see people (mowing-machines T 
should say) , and cannot be contented to mew myself up 
all the time, as you seem able to do.” 

4 4 Certainly ; and it is right that you should follow your 
inclinations, if } t ou are sure that they are genuine and cor- 
rect,” answered Breese. 44 God knows I crave society, 
society in the sense of companionship,” — he paused a 
moment, — 44 as much as anybody ; but I cannot sacrifice 
myself or my time in the society such as my observation 
tells me exists round about us. Cambridge circles, I 
make no doubt, are as improving and enjoyable as most 
others, — no mere, no less. My life is so different from 
yours, Hammersmith ! You have money and friends, and 
a certain position, — no, no, don’t deny it! Iam not 
blind, and I am not complaining, — you know that well 
enough. My greatest aim in college — now I will confess 
to you, since we have had such a frank talk — is to unite 
studious habits with a genuine, thorough interest in every 
thing going on about us, — in national matters as well as 
in the smaller area of college-affairs. Believe me, it is 
not easy to keep an even keel amidst distracting interests, 
doing your work squarely, and not wrapping yourself in 
conceit on that account, sharing the interest of you boat- 
ing-men, — no? you are not a boating-man? — well, snar- 
ing the boating-excitement, and not giving way to it. 
But now I am ashamed of having talked so much of my- 
self. You’ll excuse me? ” 


258 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“Don’t speak of it,” said Tom. “What, should a 
man speak of, to be sure ! — among Irieuds, at any rate? 
I’m sure you have vastly more friends than you think you 
have, Breese,” — Breese shrugged his shoulders, — “ and 
I do not despair of tempting you out into the field of 
twaddle some da}\ You certainly will allow that j’ou 
would be an improvement on your patent brass man, 
eh?” 

“Perhaps so, perhaps so,” said Breese. “ Not a bad 
material for the fellow, though, — brass. You know, 
Rochefoucauld says, 4 Confidence goes farther in society 
than wit.’ My man would be an immense success, I feel 
conyinced, — ‘A howling swell,’ as I heard one of your 
young society-buds say in the horse-cars the other da}\ 
Well, good-by, if you must go. To-mcrrow evening, 
then, seven o’clock sharp. I have an extra chemistry: 
you need not bring yours. Better fetch over your note- 
books, however.” 


How could Hammersmith hope to convert so tough a 
disputant, with his ingrained opinions so stubbornly main- 
tained? How could he expect to persuade a man like 
Breese to come down from his high hilltops, and join the 
company of merrymakers in the Happy Valley? Was a 
man whose aim and plan in life had been so strenuously 
lived up to hitherto, whose favorite books, constantly 
thumbed, were his Emerson and Marcus Aurelius, and the 
others above-mentioned, to leave them all for the thin gos^ 
sip and aimless capering such as he supposed passed for 
society about him? He was unjust, most assuredly. He 
was severe, without doubt, as Hammersmith had inti- 
mated. His “ flummeries, gabble-gabble, hoppity-skip,” 
was an unfair verdict on the juvenile Cambridge world 
in which Hammersmith and his friends were happy to min- 
gle, and on the cordial hospitality which Cambridge house? 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


259 


extended to the young gentlemen annually thronging up 
to the university. Let Hammersmith and his biographer 
take this place to record their indebtedness and their trib- 
ute to the genial hosts and the kindly matrons who make 
the homeless students welcome in their parlors, and do 
wnat they may to add a little cheer to their } r oung bachelor 
exile. Breese would have blushed to speak as he did, if 
he had known from personal knowledge their friendly re- 
ception and frank entertainment of young men whose onty 
passport was their college-papers and their gentlemanly 
be aring. 4 4 Flummery, idiocy / ’ indeed ! 

But if Hammersmith had known how heavily ballasted 
all reformers and specialists and nonconformists are 
obliged to be in order to keep an even keel, as Breese 
had said, among the conflicting interests about them, he 
would have understood better Breese’ s strong exaggera- 
tion. If he had reflected how many a man of this kind 
has to whistle to keep his courage up, and overstate his 
case for fear of forgetting his own points, he would not 
have wondered at Breese’ s animadversion on society and 
harmless amusement generally. He did not know all 
this, however ; and he went away from this first of many 
discussions with Breese, feeling that he was ridiculously 
severe. And yet he saw sufficient grains of truth in what 
Breese had said to cause him to reflect seriousty on the 
attitude of mind which could allow such speech. Ham- 
mersmith was no flippant reveller to enjoy senseless flum- 
mery and things which Breese held idiotic, if they were 
realty senseless and idiotic ; and so he carried into all his 
subsequent harmless pleasures and society life a memory 
of this strongly-expressed opinion of Breese’s, provocative 
of frequent thought. 

It was b it the beginning of a long series of animated 
debates between the two classmates. Hammersmith was 
younger, vastly less experienced, more impressional, than 


260 


HAMMER SMITH : 


Breese. He had seen less of his own country. He 
looked at affairs with a narrower sweep. Breese, to be 
sure, often held back, and would refuse to be drawn out on 
various subjects, particularly if relating to his individual 
experience. He often shook his head and said, “No, I 
have no opinion on the subject, Hammersmith : I know 
nothing whatever about it, I assure 3 r ou.” But, if Tom 
were persistent, he would find that it was but a mock 
modesty, assumed he knew not why. He would find, that 
on any and all the matters which troubled his own young 
soul in these budding days, — be they politics or religion, 
social life, slavery, the labor question, — Breese had not 
only read and thought for himself, but had almost invari- 
ably a definite personal view of his own, which he ad- 
vanced with diffidence or emphasis, as the mood moved 
him. So it came to pass that Hammersmith acquired a 
habit of appealing frequently to Breese for his views on 
this or that, breaking a lance with him when he could pro- 
duce one from his armory, always coming out of a dis- 
cussion with an increased respect for his manly friend’s 
ability, and not infrequently carrying away food for 
thought that would last him many days. 

That Breese was an orphan — having lost his father in 
the Mexican war, when he was a mere lad, and his 
mother soon afterwards — Hammersmith soon learned in 
them open-hearted talks. That he had roved over most 
of the United States, in various ways and for various 
reasons, since then, and had largely prepared himself for 
college by his own unaided exertions, with the exception 
of a year at a popular school in Cincinnati (for which his 
map-selling tour of the States had procured him the 
means) , Tom knew before. 

On all else connected with his life, Breese was singu 
’arly reticent. Tom had shown a natural interest, on hear 
mg that he had lost his father in the Mexican war, anc? 


HIS HAH YARD DAYS. 


261 


told of his own uncle Rupert, who had distinguished 
himself at Buena Vista ; but Breese had forgotten even 
the branch of service in which his father had fought, and 
it was not a theme that he cared to dwell on long. He 
made nc secret, however, of the fact that he intended to 
devote his life to the service of his country, in any capa- 
city which he might find possible. His enthusiasm on the 
subject, and a hearty Roman love of country which he dis- 
played on many occasions, when they were upon the 
discussion of republican institutions and the place of 
educated men in politics, marked him as an exception 
among university men of the day. And not only that, 
but they drew towards him the interested devotion of 
Hammersmith, his like in many respects, but needing a 
good generous blaze of conflict, of war, of disaster, to 
fire the cumbering stubble which threatened to choke his 
actual underlying life and principles. Who among all 
the young men of the day could prophesy the blaze that 
was to fire them all, and bum itself deep into the lives of 
many? 

Breese* s life, as he had said, was essentially different 
from Hammersmith’s. Poverty, orphanage, self-reliance, 
a deep-seated ambition, drawn from he knew not what 
source, had placed his career before him in the guise of a 
battle, a race, a rugged tussle with Fate. He accepted 
the issue : he was ready for the conflict. He made his life 
a daily battle, a daily renovation, a daily looking in the 
cold eyes of Fact. He had learned earlier than most of 
his mates, that every man must look within, and not with- 
out, for strength, for power to conquer Destiny. He 
hated mere dilettante culture. He quoted to Hammer- 
smith from Richter, “ Merely to learn languages is to 
throw away one’s money in buying beautiful purses.” 
He did not aim at being a great scholar, but a good citi- 
zen, a great citizen if you will. He loathed and despised 


262 


HAMMERSMITH : 


the nonchalance and idleness which he saw so common 
about him. lie appreciated that scholarship, literature, 
all gentle pursuits, lose by a thinness of sympathy with 
the world and the people ; and so he kept up an active 
interest in sports and college-affairs generally, as far as 
possible, without giving himself up to them ; looking 
to them as a means, not an end. He felt that rowing, 
cricket, riding, dancing, all were good for hardening and 
strengthening the body, the shield and breast-plate of 
the soul. But, as many of his talks with Hammersmith 
showed, he knew how difficult it was to keep the just bal- 
ance between them all ; and he was not surprised, though 
filled with regret, at the extravagance to which each, in 
turn, was carried in tho university. Above all, he made 
that hardest attempt that man can make, — to unite gen- 
tleness and strength of character, to be strong without 
being brutal, to be tender in spirit without being weak. 

The ordinary college verdict was, “A consummate 
prig,” “ A dig of the most emphatic kind.” Men who 
knew him better than these light critics, who had learned 
even cursorily his history and his scope of plan, resented 
the verdict, and declared him a sterling good fellow at 
bottom, but as original as sin itself. 

How could a man escape misconstruction, avoid ac- 
quiring a reputation for a certain asperity and selfishness, 
who was seen to be setting up so lofty a standard for 
himself, looking down at the gay and vigorous life of less 
studious men as something quite beneath him, something 
to be studied and regarded in a. mere historical light, as 
he might investigate the laws of the Medes and Persians, 
but something in which he did not deign to take an ac- 
tive interest? 

Ah, Breese, Breese, you may be largely right ! There 
doubtless is much levity and shifting purpcse, and ill- 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


263 


considered extravagance about you, in the class of merry, 
Luxurious juniors to winch you belong, if not in all the 
classes ; and you, perhaps, would include in your sweep- 
ing cry of “ screeching ” the innocent recreations of the 
Glee Club, the Pierian, and kindred musical societies. 
But do not press the point too hard in your scholastic 
severity of mood. Go to ! Shall all the tender memories 
that cluster about the old college glees and serenades, 
rehearsals, and enthusiastic concerts, be set down as so 
much idiotic sentiment to be torn up root and branch? 
What old Glee Club man would give them up at the price 
of much added glory in the field of scholarship or of 
sports ! How across the intervening years of war, of 
change, of success, defeat, grief, and joy, come trooping 
the notes of that earlier music, which sang itself so into 
our young boyish lives, that its tones can never be quite 
drowned out ! 

You remember, Philippus. You remember the first 
timid piping up of j^our basso profundo at your initiation 
into the club-room, where Hammersmith has just made his 
entrance ; the careful iteration of rehearsal and drill under 
the eyes and far too acute ears of Barnwell, the famous 
leader ; then the first crowded concert in Lyceum Hall, 
with your sisters and cousins, and the sisters and cousins 
of somebody else, ranged in bewildering nearness to the 
low stage on which you stood ; the echoing rounds of ap- 
plause ; the intermission, during which you sauntered 
about among the audience, which seemed more like a cosey 
family-party than a critical concourse, and graduates and 
cx-members of the club congratulated you on the even- 
ing’s success, and somebody looked up at you with 
bright eyes that were extremely eloquent, and put out a 
small gloved hand for your brown boating-man’s paw to 
close upon ; and the pot-pourri of comic and jolly college- 
songs at the close, when Pickman of the Pierians came 


264 


HAMMERSMITH : 


up with his banjo, and there was a call of “Barnwell, 
Barnwell!” “Fay, Fay!” and one favorite song after 
another was given in great rattling chorus, the audience 
shaken to convulsive merriment by the comical medley, 
till “ Fair Harvard ” came to add a quieting finale to it 
all, — what later scene of musical splendor, centennial 
outburst, or triumph of Wagner, can compare with the 
simpler pleasures and easier ovations of those early days ? 

Then, too, there were the trips to Worcester and New- 
buryport, and hospitable New Bedford ; the serenades, 
when you and your friends packed 3 T ourselves into coaches, 
and went singing your way to Brookline, or Jamaica Plain, 
or Watertown, gathering there noiselessly on the lawn, 
below some sleeping beauty’s window, and waking her 
with the mighty concerted sneeze (“ Hish, hash, hosh ! ” 
in triple unison) which is the night-alarum of the club. 
A light i3 struck in a room above ; the blinds are cautiously 
opened ; there is a slamming of doors ; and, as you are 
ending y our first melting serenade, paterfamilias , with 
evidences of hasty toilet, and a rather forced frankness 
of welcome, throws the hall-doors wide open, and appears 
in a flood of light, saying, “ Will you walk in, gentle- 
men? ” You file in from the darkness, somebody intro- 
ducing you as you pass the host, and find a neat little 
spread in the dining-room. You fall to for a while, and 
pledge each other and paterfamilias , who is very glad to 
see you, gentlemen ; and won’t you sing something in- 
side? And you give him a great booming chorus or two, 
the noise of which reaches to the stables, and startles the 
horses of your comfortable host ; or you adjourn to the 
parlor, hastily lighted, and Keyes sits down at the piano, 
and accompanies himself in a solo, singing with a particu- 
lar distinctness, as he knows, from experience, that there 
is probably a pretty little figure at the head of the stairs , 
“ all in white like a saint,” listening to the music below. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


265 


There is more glee-singing, another toast as you leave, 
and, shaking hands, you pass out upon the lawn again, 
turning, perhaps quite unconsciously, and glancing up the 
stairs, as. you go. And with a new energy, feeling fully 
the romance of the situation, you break into another sere- 
nade : possibly the blinds are opened suddenly, and a 
bouquet is thrown out for which you scramble excitedly 
in the darkness, leaving your song to sing itself as it may ; 
and then you close with a tender parting, — the Eisen- 
holer Serenade perhaps : — 

“ Slumber sweetly, dearest, close thy weary eyes; 

Guardian angels round thee hover till the morning’s rise: 

Then, my love, on airy pinions, 

Bear thy heart, in transport bound, 

To its own dominions, 

Where no earthly care is found, 

Where no earthly care is found. 

Mauden, sleep, sleep, in peace.” 

With such romantic words, and a rosebud in your button- 
hole, you move off over the grounds, and regain your 
coach, drawn up at the lodge. 

Yes, and the moonlight evenings, when the Glee Club 
adjourns to the quadrangle, and the windows are crowded 
with applauding listeners, and the student returning from 
Boston hears the great swelling chorus long before he has 
entered the elm-shadowed grounds. Class-day evening, 
too, with the songs from the band-stand, the club largely 
increased by graduate members, and yet, perhaps in a 
spirit of envy, stopping its music to shout, “ One, two, 
three, Maitland ! ” “ One, two, three, Bowditch ! ” as it 

misses a prominent singer, and spies him in some cur- 
tained window, enjoying a tete-a-tete , unusual, save cn 
these occasions of privilege. Well, it may be all non- 
sense, all levity, vanity, and vexation of spirit, to a man 
of Breese’s temperament, more’s the pity ! It may not 


206 


HAMMERSMITH : 


tend to the especial training of philosophers and states- 
men ; it may not advance a man on the rank-list : but who 
would banish music from the college walks and halls, or 
say that the authorities should imitate the grim old Puritan 
fathers, and put their taboo on the Glee Club, and many 
another of like character? — the Harvard Glee Club, 
which Hammersmith and some of his friends had entered 
at the beginning of junior year, graduating with due 
honors from their class club, which had led a decidedly 
wheezy existence for some months. 

No, no : those were joyous episodes in cloister life ; and 
whether he soared mightily, and reaped abundant ap- 
plause as a great tenor of his day, or pounded and rumbled 
away in unappreciated bass, many a man looks back upon 
his membership of the Glee Club, with its rehearsals, its 
merry concerts and serenades, as yielding him more solid 
pleasure and more rational amusement than any society 
in all the university roll. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


267 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A DANGEROUS SIDE-SADDLE. 

*• El mal que de tu boca sale, en tu seno se cae.” — From the Spanish. 
“Every one is the son of his own works.” — Cervantes. 

I DON’T see why a man wants to be such a fool, to 
refuse to row when the crew needs him so wofully ! ” 
said Albemarle, returning from the boat-houses, with a 
number of men who had been down to see the last row of 
the season. 

‘ ‘ Especially as there is not the least occasion for his 
refusing,” continued Freemantle. “ He spends twice as 
much time with his horse, and that howling glee-club, and 
at cricket, as he need give to the boat. It’s a rattling 
Ine nag of his, though ; and I don’t blame him for wish- 
ing to get astride of him whenever he can.” 

“Well, now, I tell you what it is,” said Pinckney, 
unwinding a blue silk handkerchief from his throat, “ I 
don’t blame Tom in the least. He had a mighty rough 
deal last term, fellows, with that infernal Tufton scrape 
and his faculty row ! And I don’t think it strange that 
lie should feel considerably cut up about it, and wish to 
forget that he ever saw an oar.” 

“ But what’s the use of venting his spite on the uni- 
versity boat and the pride we all feel in it, simply because 
he’s had a rough time with Tufton? ” 

“Oh! I don’t pretend to know what’s going on in his 
mind,” said Pinckney. “He may have reasons that we 
don’t know any thing about. But the faculty forbade 


268 


HAMMERSMITH : 


his rowing last term, you know ; and I don’t wonder lie 
feels sore about it. I think any of us would have felt the 
same.” 

“ ’Twas mighty funny about that faculty trouble, by 
the wajq” said Albemarle. “Did he ever find out who 
played him that low trick of informing on him? ” 

“ Not as far as I know,” answered Pinckne}\ “ That’s 
another thing too ! I’ve heard him and Goldie speak of 
it several times ; and they are both pop-sure that some 
fellow here in Cambridge must have been at the bottom 
of it : who it is, and how he could have communicated so 
quickly with Tufton, they can’t make out. There’s no 
doubt about the note being written by Tufton, none 
whatever. I’ve seen it ; and you know Tufton had a 
way of crossing his Vs that nobod}^ could possibly imi- 
tate. Goldie and Hammersmith are perfectty certain that 
the note, which was signed simply X, was written by 
him.” 

“ Mighty curious, any way ! ” said Freemantle. 

“So you can’t wonder that Tom feels a good deal 
wounded at the idea of any fellow’s going back on him 
in this way, ‘ stabbing him in the dark,’ as he says. By 
Jove, I should like to see any man attack him openly ! — 
that’s all I have to say.” And the high-spirited Pinckney 
snapped his blue handkerchief viciously in the face of a 
small freshman whom they met, and in dangerous near- 
ness to the eyes of the young fellow. 

“He must be a mighty low-lived fellow, whoever he 
is ! ” said Albemarle. “ I’ve no great friendship for Ham- 
mersmith, especially now that he’s so thick with that 
reformer Breese ; but I like to see a man treated like a 
gentleman. — And you’re right, Pinck : a man as high- 
strung as Hammersmith is not to be blamed for feeling 
out b} T such treatment. I didn’t know before, that he 
suspected anj'body out here of being in league with 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


269 


Tufton. What a blight that man 7/as. by the way* 
fellows ! ” 

“Halloo, George,’ * said Pinckne}', as Goldie, swinging 
along at a great stride with McGregor, was passing them 
on the way to the quadrangle. “What’s your hurry? 
We want to speak to you.” 

“Speak quick, then ! Dinner in five minutes! Must 
change to the buff before then.” And the two slowed 
down, and walked with the rest. 

“We want to know candidly how the crew’s getting 
on,” said Pinckney. 

“Oh! is that all? — Come along, Mac.” And they 
started ahead. 

“ No ; but hold on ! ” said Pinckney. And he pounced 
upon his stalwart chum, still breathing rapidly from his 
last severe row of the fall, and detained him, with an 
arm about his neck. “Now I’ve got you, old fellow. 
Tell us truty. How is Ladbroke getting on? ” 

“ Mac, are you going to see mo throttled in this way, 
and by such a devil of a giant?” And he made a pre- 
tence of trying to get away. “How’s he getting on? 
Well, if I must tell, he’s getting on his coat about 
now — as near as I can calculate.” 

“ Come, come, tell a fellow ! How is he going to pull ? ” 

“With his hands and arms, I imagine: some leg- 
muscle too. — Eh, Mac?” said Goldie, with a twinkle. 

“ But has he any science? ” asked Pinckney. 

“Best boxer in college by all odds, I should say, 
present company out of the ring, of course.” 

“ But how does he do in the boat? ” 

“ Obeys orders, like the rest of us ; doesn’t he, Mac? ” 

“Well, has he any staying-power, you reprobate?” 
pleaded Pinckney in despair. 

“He stays about as long as the rest of us, and then 
L'e runs away,” answered Goldie ; and, suiting the action 


270 


HAMMERSMITH: 


to the word, he dropped his head suddenly, broke away 
from his chum, and, running off with McGregor, vaulted 
the college fence lightly, and made for the quadrangle. 

“ By Jove ! you can’t make much out of a boating-man 
when he don’t want to tell you,” said Freemantle. 
“Goldie’s in a merry mood to-night. It’s all right, I 
think, or he’d hardly be so jolly.” 

“Not a bit of it! ” said Pinckney. “You can’t tell 
a thing by his manner : George is too old a fox for that. 
Heavens ! he told me after Worcester, last year, that he 
knew, throe days before the race, that we were going to 
lose it ; bat you know how cheerful he looked all the 
time. He’s the best stuff for a boating-man that I ever 
laid eyes on : by Jove, he is ! ” 

“ Is Albertson really injured by the Worcester race? ” 
asked Albemarle. 

“Afraid he is,” answered Pinckney. “ Doctor’s for- 
bidden his rowing any more, at any rate ; and he looks 
pretty slim, doesn’t he? ” 

“ Yes ; but who ever thought that Ladbroke would suc- 
ceed in getting a seat in the ’Varsity ! Who was it that 
brought him out? ” 

“ Oh ! Mac, as usual,” answered Pinckney. “ He has 
his eyes on every fellow in Cambridge, I believe, ready 
to pounce on anybody in case of emergency. And Lad- 
broke is not such a bad oar, either. He rowed to the 
Isle of Shoals in vacation, with Clifford, you know ; and 
his boxing has kept him in pretty fair condition all along.” 

The young men talked on thus till they reached the 
quadrangle, discussing the boating prospects, wondering 
if Ladbroke could be made to work, and inquiring of 
each other concerning the progress on a new shell which 
had just been ordered. 

For Ladbroke, heavy and lethargic though he was, given 
to boxing, horse-racing, card-playing, and carousing with 


IIIS HARVARD DAYS. 


271 


the wildest spirits of the university, had, nevertheless, 
a tremendous amount of muscle, which the Argus-eyed 
McGregor, purveyor of mighty oarsmen for the ’Varsity, 
had made up his mind could just as well be captured, and 
made to work for the glory of the university, as allowed 
to waste itself in riotous living and idleness. Ham- 
mersmith had dropped from the crew ; and Albertson, 
taking his place only a few days before the Worcester 
race, had been so far injured by the great strain of that 
struggle, as to be forbidden to row by his physician. Mc- 
Gregor, ever alert, had at once seized upon Ladbroke ; 
and, by various wheedling processes best known to cap- 
tains of boat-crews, had persuaded him that undying 
fame, and a paradise of pleasure, awaited him, if he would 
only consent to lend his valuable aid in the ’Varsity. 
And although his attendance at chapel did not show that 
regularity of worship which Alma Mater demands of her 
children ; and a fondness for the neighboring race-track 
at Brighton, with various other dubious influences, ren- 
dered it not unlikely that his university career might come 
to an abrupt termination some fine day, — he was, neverthe- 
less, McGregor’s only hope ; and the croakers were si- 
lenced. McGregor stuck to his man as a ward-politician 
hangs to the newly-made voter on election day, or as the 
trainer (in those stables which Ladbroke was fond of fre- 
quenting) sta}’s by the racer under his charge, watching 
him day and night, looking after his exercise, his diet, his 
oat-goings and his in-comings. Already Ladbroke, like 
many another man of his nature and tendencies who has 
gone through the same hard training, was beginning to 
show the good results of the new order of things ; and 
Goldie’s manner this afternoon proceeded from a real 
satisfaction, which he and McGregor had just been dis- 
cussing, at the good prospects for next year’s races. 

“Come up, fellows, won’t you?” asked Albemarle. 


272 


HAMMERSMITH: 


“ The crew dines before the rest of us, you know. We’ve 
a half-hour yet.” And the three sauntered up to Albe- 
marle’s quarters, just outside the quadrangle. 

‘ ‘ We were talking about Hammersmith and Breese,” 
said Albemarle. “Hang me, if I can understand the 
fascination about that man Breese ! He’s about the only 
man in the class that I can’t make out. The way that 
he sailed into everybody and every thing in that speech 
of his in ‘ The Forum,’ two years ago, was enough to 
disgust a fellow. You gave him a mighty good reply, 
Pinckney, — a mighty good reply ! ” 

“ Thank you,” said Pinckney. “ I didn’t think much 
of what I was saying : I only remember that I was con- 
foundedly mad at his manner, and his way of talking 
down at us.” 

“He’s an infernal reformer!” chimed in Freemantle. 
“ He wants to take the world all to pieces, and try to fix 
it up a little better than before, with ‘ J. Breese, fecit ,’ in 
one comer.” 

“ That’s what takes me!” said Pinckney. “ By Jove ! 
the world has got on pretty well for a few thousand years, 
without going to smash ! What’s the need of bothering 
your head about notions and isms, and beggarly reforms ! 
Give me a horse and a gun, and a good square meal twice 
a day, and I’ll let the Devil take your theories and crotch- 
ets ! ” 

“It’s all very well to talk of having your horse and j T our 
gun, and good square meals, Pinck ; but there you are 
hitting on one of the very problems of the age, — how af- 
fairs may be so arranged that everybody may have enough 
to hve on, — perhaps not a horse and a gun to every man, 
but a fowl in every peasant’s pot at least once a week/* 
said Albemarle. 

“Oh, that’s no problem!” said the wealthy young 
Southerner, who had a stable full of horses in South Caro- 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


273 


lina, waiting for him to come and ride them. “ Let every 
man do his work, by Jove ! squarely and honestly, and 
there’ll be an end to that question. It’s the fearful idle- 
ness of people, that makes that problem, as }"Ou call it, 
take rank at all.” 

“That’s so!” said Freemantle, rolling a cigarette. 
“ And when you say, 1 work,’ Pinck, you don’t mean that 
everybody should get to work with his own hands, of 
course, but should organize and direct others if he can ; 
that is, if he has others that he can direct.” 

“ Precisely, by Jove ! ” said Pinckney. “ Look at our 
negroes ! They are happy, they are contented, they have 
a fowl in their pots whenever they want. And you can 
be pretty sure that I don’t work, or intend to work, ex- 
cept in directing these negroes, and making two cotton- 
bolls grow where one grew before. I shall be a benefactor 
to the human race, eh, on the old definition? ” 

“ Well, I don’t intend to discuss the slavery question 
with you, Pinckney,” said Albemarle. “ You know where 
I stand on that question. We’ve had enough talks, — 
you and Trimble and I. I only hope to Heaven 3-ou 
may never find slavery a white elephant on your hands ; 
that’s all ! ” 

“ You needn’t be afraid of that, my dear fellow. We 
know which side of our bread is buttered. But that’s 
neither here nor there. What I object to is the way that 
a man like Breese goes about trying to find flaws in every 
thing, and trying to patch up a new religion and a new 
style of government, a new society and a new university.” 

“Yes, there’s a deused too much of a — what-do-ye- 
call-it, in the world ; a ” — said Freemantle. 

“Exactly! it only depends upon what you call it,” 
said Albemarle. 

“ Why, introspection,” said Freemantle, “ too much in« 
fcrospection, you know, and all that sort of thing.” 


274 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“ I’ve no doubt of it,” answered Pinckney, “ though 1 
don’t the least know what you mean. But, by Jove ! just 
look at it ! What is there that people are not pottering 
with, from religion down to the thickness of a fellow’s 
shoes? Your old Boston here is the hotbed of half the 
troubles too.” 

“ Of course,” began Albemarle, “ there are some very 
extravagant schemes started ; but ” — 

“Extravagant! I should say there were. Abolition, 
cracked- wheat, mesmerism, come-outers, animal-magnet- 
ism, non-resistance, woman’s rights,” continued Pinck- 
ney, droning out the words in sing-song, camp-meeting 
fashion. “Good Lord! Will they let nothing rest? 
What do you think happened to me only yesterday, — no, 
day before? I was rushing out of the quadrangle, in a 
great hurry to get to Boston, when I ran almost plump 
into a tall, gaunt specimen of the genus femina , looking 
at the buildings through a ferocious pair of spectacles, and 
grasping an umbrella. 4 1 beg pardon, madam,’ said I. 
— 4 Young man,’ said she in a tremendous voice, 4 do 
you know where you are going?’ — 4 Certainly,’ said I. 
4 I’m going to Boston.’ — 4 No, you’re not. You’re going 
to the bottomless pit ! ’ she shouted : and handing me 
a little book, which I have never dared open, she said, 
4 Read that : ’ and I ran off like a shot. Gad ! I’ve 
dreamed of my grandmother ever since.” 

44 How did she find out so much about you, Pinck? ” 
asked Freemantle. 

44 Oh, gammon ! — I remember now : she asked me if 
my name was Freemantle,” said Pinckney. 

44 What did you tell her? ” asked Freemantle, laughing 

“ I said it was not ; Freemantle had just been expelled. 
But I promised to see that you received the book.” And 
diving into a pocket, he pulled out a small folded pan> 
nldet, and handed it to Freemantle. 


HIS HAH YARD DAYS. 


275 


“ I think you fellows each deserve a separate copy,” 
said Albemarle. “ Come, let’s go to dinner.” 

44 Are you going to the Faj^erweathers’ to-morrow even- 
ing? ” asked Freemantle, as they went down stairs. 

“I don’t know. Why, it’s A.A. night, isn’t it?” 
asked Albemarle. 

4 4 No : supper is postponed till Monday night, so Ham- 
mersmith says.” 

44 What is it at the Fayerweathers’ ? I forget what they 
do at these Cambridge toots,” said Albemarle. 

44 German at eleven, I believe,” answered Freemantle. 
44 Big time, I hear: Jack Fayerweather’s freedom birth- 
day, you know ! ” 

44 Well, perhaps I’ll toddle up for a while. But no Ger- 
man for me, if I know myself,” said Albemarle ; and the 
young men went in to dinner. 

Meanwhile, the two men so roundly abused in the above 
conversation — Breese and Hammersmith — were indul- 
ging in exercise quite common to the two in these crisp 
autumn days. Breese was swinging along the country 
roads back of Cambridge in a rapid constitutional, brand- 
ishing his well-worn oak stick the while ; Hammersmith, 
cantering gloriously through grassy lanes flaming with 
changing foliage, on the back of the noble bay horse left 
him by Penhallow, which was kept polished to the sheen 
of satin by the expectant grooms of Windgall, the stable- 
man. 

Why should Tom go cantering off by himself, like a 
miserable old bachelor, when he might have a fair com- 
panion, on a side-saddle, riding at his elbow, and dou- 
bling the zest of this grandest of pastimes? Why, if Miss 
Darby were so fond of riding, and had been in the habit 
of scouring the country, for a whole year now, with a 
groom in her train, — why should not Tom relieve the 
prim menial, and himself act as squire, now that he had a 
good mount? 


276 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Hammersmith had not asked himself these questions 
many times, you may be sure, before he had decidea 
unanimously that knight-errantry in the nineteenth cen- 
tury was an anachronism, a humbug, and the office of 
squire and groom-in-waiting infinitely preferable in every 
way ; so that many a sunny afternoon, when he was not 
practising for a cricket-match, or otherwise detained, he 
had despatched a brief note to Miss Darby by the omni- 
present 3 'Oungster Glue, — runner of errands, and mender 
of broken furniture by aid of effective glue-pot, — and 
shortly afterwards followed his note on the back of high- 
stepping Baldy. 

If Miss Darby could accept his invitation, well and 
good : he joined her, and they were galloping away in 
remarkably quick metre. If not, well and good also : he 
sprang into saddle again, and went for a spin by himself, 
consoling himself for her absence by putting his horse 
through a whole series of movements and trick3 to which 
he had been training him, and hoping for better luck next 
time. 

This afternoon she could go. Tom met Glue, on his 
return from Miss Darby’s, whistling a street-boy’s air as 
he drummed the casual fence. He stepped to the curb- 
stone as Tom was cantering by, and swung his battered 
cap. 

“ All right, Mr. Ham-smith! She’s a-going, I guess. 
My eye, but her horse be a-stepping about lively ! ” And 
Hammersmith, without puffing rein for the small messen- 
ger, nodded, and dashed past. Baldy is feeling his oats 
to-day. 

Miss Darby was just about starting off by herself when 
the young glueman arrived with Tom’s note. She was 
already mounted, and walking her horse along the semi- 
rural street, when Hammersmith came up. 

“Which way to-day, Miss Darby?” he asked, after 
lifting his hat, and glancing at her saddle-girths. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


277 


“ Where you will. I think the Belmont road will be 
pretty to-day, the woods are so fine ! ” And they turned 
then* horses’ heads westward, and were soon past Mount 
Auburn, giving their animals a looser rein as they left the 
thickly settled parts of the town. 

We have no intention of following them along their 
winding way this lovely afternoon, or of setting down all 
the idle speeches and enthusiastic enjoyment of the two 
lovers of horses, — lovers of horses like yourself, dear 
Philippus. 

It is a dangerous pastime, this of riding, none more 
dangerous ; not in the earthly sense of a spill, or of 
broken bones, my dear madam, rolling in your coupe 
elaborately padded, but in the view of far more subtle, 
invisible dangers that delight to pounce on bounding 
youth and beauty, torturing them with exquisite pleasure. 
Perhaps under the critic eyes of the public, ogling in 
Rotten Row, Central Park, Beacon Street, these dangers 
may not show their heads, or let the whirring of their 
fight wings be heard. There is an evil-eye which blights 
many such a tender creature, frowns originality and joy- 
ousness into dull conformity, and -would look upon such 
riding as this of Tom’s and Miss Darby’s more in the 
light of a pageant and a spectacle than as a bit of romance 
bright with risk. But riding in country lanes, with the 
freshness of youth on the cheek, and all the picturesque- 
ness of Nature starting the ready flood of young feelings 
in rosy-rippling currents, — tell me, all ye mediaeval men 
and women who remember your youth, and who ever 
mounted a horse, did the roguish little god with the 
blinded eyes, who shoots regardless of aim, ever find you 
more vulnerable than when thu* riding? No matter where 
; t may be, along the hedgerows and velvet turf of Eng- 
land, trim vine-edged lanes of France, a rough New- 
England pike flanked w : th golden woods, or dear brown 


278 


HAMMERSMITH : 


hills of California looking seaward, or down a royal purple 
valley, — tell me if it is not true. Tell me, Pkilippus — 
but no ! I will not ask you to open that page again. 

They were mounting a hill in Belmont, and Mr. Tom 
was just beginning to say something, in his enthusiastic 
way, about wishing that he were a groom or a jockey, he 
was so fond of horses, when he exclaimed suddenly, — 

“ Halloo, here’s Breese ! ” as they came unexpectedly 
upon the great scholar, turning into their road from a side- 
lane. 

Tom involuntarily drew in his horse a bit ; but, seeing 
Miss Darby cantering ahead, he let him out, and they 
bowed to Breese as they passed. 

u Why, do you know him? ” asked Hammersmith. 

“ Oh, I’ve met him ! ” she answered. “ He is reading 
some Latin pla} T s with my father, you know ; and he was 
introduced to me one evening by father. Isn’t this a 
superb view?” she added quickly. “There is Somer- 
ville, and Boston, and Bunker-Hill Monument, and ” — 

“Breese is a mighty queer fellow, Miss Darby, — ex- 
cuse my interrupting you, — he’s the fellow I was telling 
you about the other day, that wouldn’t go into society, 
and thinks it’s all flummery and nonsense, and spoke 
about inventing the brass man that I told you of.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said she. 

“ I didn’t tell you his name, as I didn’t know you had 
ever met him. Did you know that he was at Fresh Pond 
tliat horrid day in freshman year? ” 

“ I heard afterwards that he was.” 

“ That was an awful day, wasn’t it? ” said Tom, tak- 
ing his left foot out of the stirrup, and birring towards 
her. “Miss Darby, you can’t imagine how a fellow 
"eels, I suppose, when he’s been so near drowning a 
young lady as that? ” 

“ No, I don’t suppose I can. But here’s a lovely piece 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


of road : I challenge you to race as far as that oak-tree ; ’ * 
and, without further ado, they were rattling over the hard, 
rocky road, till Tom, quibe ungallantly, came out a length 
or so ahead at the tree. 

“ Ah ! ” said Miss Darby, drawing a long breath, and 
putting a hand to her beaver. “That was grand! I 
yield the palm. Beppo and I are not equal to you. — But 
we don’t care, do we, Beppo? ” 

“Your saddle is loose. Let me tighten the girths; 
there!” And she was off, and quickly mounted again; 
and they headed for home. 

“ If I could only live in the saddle, Miss Darby!” 
Tom exclaimed impulsively, on the way home. “I’m 
never so happy as when on horseback, are you? ” 

“ N-no : I’m very, very fend of it. But you would 
grow tired of it, if you had to ride,” said Miss Darby. 

“ I don’t think so. Why are the middle ages dead ! ” 
he exclaimed, with many a philippic young man before 
him. “ How jolly it must have been to go riding about, 
with a squire cr two, and a sturdy old horse under you, 
living off the fat of the land, tilting with any fellow you 
came across, and succoring unhappy young parties right 
and left ! 

“It must be nice to try to succor unhappy young 
parties, as you say,” Miss Darby added quietly. But he 
was stooping to turn a stirrup, and did not see the look 
that she gave him. 

“Every tiling is so cut and dried nowadays ! ” Tom 
continued. “ That’s the very expression that Breese 
used, by the way, in speaking of society.” 

“ There’s a good deal of truth in it,” said Miss Darby. 
“ But I don’t think, for that reason, that one should rush 
V) the opposite extreme, and make a monk of one’s self.” 

“ So I told Breese. But there’s no convincing him. 
I’ve been at him a dozen times already ; but he’s as linn 


280 


HAMMERSMITH : 


as a rock. Jack Fayerweather has asked him up there 
to-morrow evening, by the way, and I’m going to do 
what I can to get him to go. I doubt very much if I 
shall succeed, though. I’ll tell you what I wish you 
might do for me, Miss Darby, if it isn’t asking too 
much.” 

“ Well? ” said she. 

“ If I get him to go, and it comes convenient, couldn’t 
you pitch into him a little on the subject of society, — 
show him how mistaken he is, and that sort of thing? 
You see, my pride is aroused now ; and I’m bound to 
carry my point with him, even if I only induce him to go 
out with me once or twice.” 

“ And you want me to a si as ally and counsellor? ” 

“Exactly,” said Hammersmith, — “if you will. I 
don’t suppose it’s exactly the thing to ask of you ; but 
X” — 

“ Oh ! I've no objections, I assure you, if it shall be 
possible, without appearing to be meddling,” said Miss 
Darby. “I should like immensely to hear what he has 
to say. Father says he is remarkably clever, and remark- 
ably original.” 

“ That he is, — our head scholar now, you know. You 
ought to hear him pitch into sports and idleness, and so 
on, at college. I suppose, when he saw us just now, he 
said to himself that I was wasting my time riding about 
the country, and had better be at home studying, or tak- 
ing a quiet walk like himself.” 

Miss Darby started just a bit at this speech of Ham- 
mersmith’s, which was, indeed, frank and ill-considered, 
and not over-complimentary to the young woman at his 
side ; but she presently went on, — 

“ I’ vs no sympathy with men who can be so severe as 
that. I don’t think I shall like him a bit ; and I do no* 
promise that I will ever talk to him, unless he is ven 
gracious.” 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


281 


“ Another spin ? ’ ’ asked Tom ; and they cantered rap- 
idly homeward a mile or more, the horses feeling the 
freshness of approaching twilight, as well as the potent 
influence of nearing domestic fodder, and plunging and 
pulling hard at the reins, as they dashed through the 
lengthening shadows, and over the brilliant fallen mantle 
of autumn. 

“How the old Roman could ever have spoken of 
‘ Black Care that sits behind the horseman/ I never 
could quite see, ” said Tom, as they drew near Miss 
Darby’s. “ If there is ever a time when Care is shaken 
off, and thoroughly driven away, it is when you are on 
horseback ; don’t you think so ? . He must be a pretty 
plucky rider, if he could stick on behind a fellow when 
he’s going like that last spin of ours, eh? — Then you 
will dance the German with me to-morrow evening ? ’ * 
said Tom, as he was taking her off her horse. 

“ Certainly, if you wish.” 

“ And you will be my ally in bringing Breese out of his 
retirement, if it can be managed? ” 

“ Yes, if I can help you at all.” 

“Thank you very much, — and for a very pleasant 
ride. Good- evening.” 

“ Good-evening.” 

Hammersmith tore back to the stable, riding half the 
time without stirrups, as he had ridden on the banks of 
the Hudson when a boy, and adding a fleeting element 
of movement and brightness to the pedestrian student 
world steering for its evening meal. 

How little he foresaw the effect of his light compact 
with Miss Darby, half in jest as it was made ! How little 
he knew the cause of the suddenness with which Breese 
answered him that evening, when he entered his room, 
and said, without prelude, — 

“ Now, Breese, I’m going to make you go with me tc 


282 


HAMMERSMITH: 


the Fayerweathers’ to-morrow evening, or die in the 
attempt ! ” 

“ I’m going,” said Breese quietly. 

“What! Ye gods! what have we now? Why this 
sudden lapsing into the gabble-gabble and hoppity- skip ? ” 

But he received no satisfactory explanation then, or 
ever, in fact ; and only long afterwards was he able, as 
we may be, to fathom by conjecture, and joining of fact 
with fact, the cause of Breese’s sudden change of man- 
ner. 

Was he going into the halls of flummery once for all, to 
see for himself just what it all meant? Was he meaning 
to act the spy on Tom himself for any especial reason ? 
Was he really converted to Hammersmith’s way of think- 
ing? Was he attracted by any particular young butterfly, 
such as he had spoken of? Was he really beginning to 
reflect that there was something else in the world besides 
hard work, and self-abnegation, and a life of cheerless 
isolation ? 

All these queries popped into Tom’s mind after leaving 
Breese that evening with his curiosity ungratified ; but he 
was compelled to allow them to remain unanswered and 
bristling for many long weeks, during which the shifting 
scenes of their college-life went on about them, themselves 
prominent actors therein. 


It was an auspicious time for Breese to make his debut 
in Cambridge society. Not only was he the head scholar 
in his class, and already known by reputation as a man of 
unusual genius, as well as the friend of many men of his 
class who were favorites in Cambridge circles, but, on this 
da}' of the Fayerweather party, the junior exhibition had 
come off (preceded several days by the students’ comical 
episode of Junior Mock Parts) , and Breese had delivered 
an oration which instantly made him famous in the univer* 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


283 


sity, by the force and originality, and singular maturity, 
of its arguments. 

He had been assigned a part which did not fall in with 
his line of thought, or suit his tastes especially, — a heavy 
Roman theme, with no possibility of a modern application ; 
but at his personal request, made effective and prcper 
by his high rank in the class, he had succeeded in substi- 
tuting for it an oration on a subject of his own selection. 
The faculty had hemmed and hawed over the novel sug- 
gestion, and turned the matter over in their learned heads 
for a day or more, seeking pretexts for refusal. But as 
his subject did not threaten the life or existing institutions 
of the universit}’, and no fair excuse for refusal could be 
devised, consent had been given ; and, in his proper place 
on the lists that day, Breese advanced to the platform, and 
delivered his part amidst intensest interest. 

It was an English oration on “ The Influence of Re- 
publics on the Individual.” And, without going into hi3 
arguments in this place, we may say, that by its breadth 
of treatment, ripeness of thought, and a certain throbbing 
sensitiveness of language, which was the mature growth 
from the downright fierceness of his freshman style, he 
did more than bear off the laurels of the day. He made 
himself an instant name with the authorities and the 
scholarly Cambridge audience, as a man of far more than 
ordinary ability, — a name which his future college-career 
was destined to add to, not mar. 

Albemarle was put down for a Greek oration, which he 
delivered with his well-known grace of manner, — a cold, 
heavy, classical manner, euiting his theme. Hammer- 
smith and Trimble were joined in a Latin dialogue. Tot- 
man, the “ Sculpin,” outdid himself in an English disqui- 
sition on the chronic subject of “ The Present Aspect of 
the Eastern Question ; ” and a dozen more youngsters 
stood up in solemn black gowns, and aired their young 
thoughts on various ponderous world-matters. 


284 


HAMMERSMITH : 


What mingling of sense and nonsense, and skilfu. 
plagiarism from books, those bo}dsh efforts showed ! With 
what “faces, smug and round as pearls/’ they stood up 
before their audience of mammas and cousins, awful uni- 
versity dignitaries, and half- attentive fellow-students, and 
hurled their carefully-balanced sentences, confident of 
aim ! What invective there was ! what sonorous round- 
ing of periods ! what laborious copying of ancient mod- 
els ! And the wise smile which spread over scholarly 
faces when the Latin orator made an intelligible hit ; the 
honor andi and spectatissimi appropriating their titles with 
a sweet humility, and the vos , qui auditis showing here 
and there a remarkable attention, as though they said, 
“ Oh, yes ! we understand you. Macte virtute , my boy ! 
You see, we speak the vernacular.” Ah, what ambitious 
little literary festivals they were ! And how can the eye 
of criticism look back at them with any thing but kind 
ness, any thing but admiration for their charming gravity, 
and wonderful profundity of discussion ! Away with the 
man who shall say that they were vain, or join with Breese 
in declaring them a species of mouthing and mimicking 
of classic ages, bearing no relation to the present ! 

Breese’s oration, then, with its salient points, well given 
in intelligible English, and its originality, in such striking 
contrast with the majority of the day’s exercises, pro- 
cured him no small fame with the university and the 
quite considerable audience from outside the college-walls. 
Graduates discussed him as they made off to their homes 
after the close of the exhibition ; professors nodded their 
heads approvingly at him ; mammas and young daughters 
were immensely struck with his earnest, thoughtful man- 
ners, and spoke of him as, “Oh, such a clever man! ” 
His own classmates, of course, joined in the general 
murmur of applause, and were not sorry that the} 7 had 
among them the most original and brilliant man of the 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


285 


university, — each man feeling a peculiar pride in the 
possession, as though he were especially responsible, and 
especially kind in allowing Breese to speak. And Breese, 
for his part, smiled to himself, to think how easy a thing 
could change the whole attitude of his fellows towards 
him ; and yet was not displeased at the happy change. 


286 


HAMMERSMITH : 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


HISS DARBY LEADS A “ GERMAN,” AND BREESE LOOKS ON 

“ Still, as before (and as now), balls, dances, and evening parties, 

Shooting with bows, going shopping together, and hearing them singing, 
Dangling beside them, and turning the leaves on the dreary piano, 

Offering unneeded arms, performing dull farces of escort, 

Seemed like a sort of unnatural up-in-the-air balloon- work, 

(Or, what to me is as hateful, a riding about in a carriage), 

TJtter removal, from work, mother-earth, and the objects of living.” 


Clough. 


HE gayest party of the season was at its height the 



J- following evening, when Breese and Hammersmith 
advanced to make their bows in Mrs. Fayerweather’s par- 
lors, — Breese, the literary hero of the hour, whose ora- 
tion even the severe Dummer had pronounced the “ best- 
sustained effort for many years;” Hammersmith, his 
handsome friend, the rescuer of Miss Darby in his first 
year at Cambridge, the champion of beleaguered young 
actresses, the proud-spirited young fellow who had even 
given the faculty a piece of his Hammersmith mind, the 
oarsman who had been so sadly missed in the ’Varsity at 
Worcester, and the man who was now distinguishing him- 
self in almost as marked a manner as in the former 
unhappy episodes by his creditable performance in the 
classrooms, newly proven by his part in the exhibition of 
to-day. And with what a lordly air the young gentleman 
bore himself, looking you in the eye as though he had 
never known an actress, or a Tufton, or any but the most 
placid experience in the world ! 

A half-hour later Breese was standing talking earnestly 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


287 


frith Miss Pinckney, sister of the fiery clium of Goldie’s, 
a radiant beaut}", with a certain elan and impulsiveness 
quite disconcerting to the circumspect young women of 
Boston, among whom she was spending the winter for the 
sake of certain musical privileges. 

“ Why are you scowling so at your sister, Mr, Pinck- 
ney? ” asked Miss Summerdale, as she came out from 
the dancing-room on Pinckney’s arm. 

“Confound her!” said Pinckney. “She’s talking 
with that fellow Breese, a regular old reforming humbug, 
dyed in the wool ! Who can have introduced her? ” 

“Why, what is the matter with him?” asked Miss 
Summerdale, locking up at him interestedly, ready to 
hear gossip, or take his part, as the case might be. 

“ Nothing. But, as I say, he’s a regular out-and-out 
demolisher of every thing under the sun, — the sort of a 
fellow that we should give a good thick coat of tar and 
feathers, if we caught him down South, with an old mule 
to carry him north of Mason and Dixon’s Line.” 

“ Graciouo, I didn’t think he was so fierce as that! 
He’s certainly remarkably clever.” 

“ Of course he is ! Those fellows generally are. 
Anybody can be clever, if he sticks to one thing long 
enough,” said Pinckney. And the handsome young 
Southerner paced the halls with his fair partner, cooling 
themselves from their dance, and looking forward anxiously 
to the German, which was to come off an hour hence, and 
which they were to dance together. 

“ I hear you are such a great scholar, Mr. Breese! ” 
Miss Pinckney said, continuing her conversation with the 
young society-hater. ‘ ‘ I shall be really afraid to say 
any thing to you.” 

“ I hope not,” said Breese, smiling a severe sort of 
smile, — why will not people let his scholarship alone, and 
treat him like anybody else ! “I should be sorry to think 


288 


HAMMERSMITH : 


myself such an ogre as to prevent Miss Pinckney from 
saying whatever came into her mind, for that would be a 
cruelty to her friends.” This, by way of his first compli- 
mentary sally, surprised him not a little, as he found him- 
self making it. 

“ Oh, thank you! But I am always afraid of you 
great New-England scholars, I’m so ignorant myself. I 
do assure you, I don’t know any thing ! — nothing but a 
little music, and history, and French, of course ; and, oh ! 
I’m awfully fond of horses. I do nothing but ride and 
sing at home. And really, Mr. Breese, I don’t see any 
good in studying so awfully hard. What does it all 
amount to? ” And she beamed upon the poor fellow with 
such a frank and thoroughly captivating smile, that I 
wonder he didn’t then and there abjure study, and hard 
work, and his solitary mode of life, altogether, and con- 
fess that he had made a mistake. 

“ It’s hard to see what any thing amounts to, as you 
say, Miss Pinckney,” he remarked. “ But I’ve set m} r - 
self certain work to do here in Cambridge ; and I think 
every man ought to stick to whatever he undertakes, if it 
kills him.” 

“ Of course he ought,” said Miss Pinckney; “ and I 
admire you for keeping to what you have planned. But 
I should think it would be such hard work and so lonely ' 
I hear you do nothing but study, and go to lectures, all 
the time. Oh ! I forgot to say — but I won’t tell you, for 
you will laugh at me — yes, I will, ‘hough : I’m very 
fond of one kind of books, though I don’t suppose you 
would approve of my taste. I dote on poetry ! ” 

“Yes?” he said. “ Some poetry is certainly worth 
reading. But why do you talk of me as though I were a 
college professor, or some awful literary demon? What 
poems are you so fond of ? ” 

“ Oh, I hardly dare tell you ! ‘ Lalla Rookli,’ and some 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


289 


of”, — Bat she was exceeding^ happy to be relieved from 
what she feared would be a severe catechism, perhaps a 
crushing condemnation, of her literary powers, on seeing 
our friend Freemantle, wearing the semi -ennuye air that 
he was beginning to assume as life began to pall on him, 
approach them from the ball-room, and say, with his 
head slightly on one side, and thumbs in his waistcoat 
pockets, — 

44 May I have the pleasure of this galop, Miss Pinck- 
ney? 99 with the manner of a man who thought, 44 Well, I 
might as well dance as do any thing else.” 

44 Certainly,” said Miss Pinckney, beaming on him in 
turn, 44 if Mr. Breese will excuse me.” And Breese bowed 
gravely at her, and then at Freemantle, turning on his heel 
with noticeable impatience at something as the two passed 
into the ball-room, and presently began gliding briskly 
about in the crush of dancers. 

44 How caA you stand that Breese? ” asked Freemantle 
under his breath, as they danced. 

44 Stand him! You wicked — man! What — do you 
mean ? He’s — very nice — and very manly-looking , ’ ’ she 
answered, in a broken sort of way, as they darted here and 
there, and young novitiates in the art of dancing pranced 
wildly about, regardless of collisions, and all Freemantle’ s 
practised skill was required in steering his partner safely 
through the maze. 

Breese, turning, was advancing to the reception-room, 
to find somebody who would not be in danger of being 
whisked away from him in the midst of a conversation, 
when he came upon Hammersmith and Miss Darby, sit- 
ting in a passage-way, and talking earnestly. • He was 
bowing and passing them, when Hammersmith called 
out, — 

44 See here, Breese ! come and be umpire. Miss Darby 
and I were discussing- — a — a — the question of Mock 


290 


HAMMERSMITH: 


Parts. She doesn’t approve of them ; thinks them toe 
personal, ungentlemanly, and that sort of thing ; and of 
course I was standing up for them as a good old custom. 
What do you think?” And while Miss Darby put on a 
look of perfect mystification and wonder (and their low, 
earnest dialogue before Breese came up did not have the 
appearance, by any means, of a simple discussion of a 
college-custom) , Breese began quite innocently to give his 
opinion, siding, as Tom knew he would, with Miss Darby, 
and against the custom of Mock Parts, — a burlesque per- 
formance allowing great license in the way of pasquinade 
and travesty of classmate by classmate. 

Miss Darby looked so unutterably surprised, and Breese 
was proceeding with such gravity to lay down the law in 
support of his view of the case, that Tom feared he might 
be caught in his little fib, and, suddenly looking at his 
watch, said, — 

“You will excuse me, Miss Darby, and Breese. It’s 
nearly time for supper ; and I must go and see about the 
favors for the German, which begins right after. Dipton 
was to have led,” said Tom to Breese, “ but has just sent 
word that he is called home suddenly ; and Jack has asked 
Miss Darby and me to lead in his place. — You think a 
favor figure had better be the first ? ” to Miss Darby. 

“ Yes, it’s better, I think. The bouquets, before they 
are wilted. And please have our seats somewhere away 
from the music: it is so deafening!” Hammersmith 
bowed, and walked off. 

“ I’m very fond of that man, Miss Darby. He’s a fine 
fellow,” said Breese ; “ the only man in the class that I 
feel I can talk freely with, without fear of offending him, 
or of being misunderstood ” 

“ You’ve proved your liking for him by what you did 
for him last year,” said Miss Darby, crossing her hands 
In her lap, and turning her face partly towards him • • Ha* 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


291 


he ever found out that you came to me about his faculty 
trouble ? I hope not . ’ ’ 

'‘Not from me, on my word, Miss Darby! I don't 
think he quite understands yet exactly how he came to 
be saved from being sent off; but I think, from things he 
has let drop, that he supposes Goldie and your father were 
the cause. I do not believe he suspects either you or 
me.” 

“ I am very glad. It would place us all in an extremely 
ridiculous light," she said, smiling. “He is so high- 
spirited ! — But let me congratulate you on your success 
to-day, Mr. Breese. Papa and I listened to every word 
of it ; and, though I couldn’t understand more than hall* 
you said, I know it was very clever, for everybody says so. 
But you must be tired of being congratulated on it, are 
you not? ’’ 

“ Almost," he said. “ It is always pleasant to be com- 
plimented by one’s friends, however: Tom, Dick, and 
Harry is another matter." 

“How is it that you happen to be here, though, this 
evening? The Fayerweathers are more successful than 
we in drawing you out of your shell — den I believe col- 
lege-men call it." 

“I don’t know," said Breese, examining the pattern 
of some tiles at his feet, near which a little white slipper 
showed its dainty tip. “I suppose, being such a great 
man as you say I am, I came out to receive the homage 
of my admirers ; ’’ and he tried to smile unconcernedly, and 
failed. 

“ But I thought society and the hoppity-skip were wick- 
edness and abomination in } T our eyes," she said with equal 
unconcern. 

He turned suddenly, but checked himself, and said, — 

“Oh, no ! I think a man, or anybody for that matter, 
can waste a great deal of time at parties. But they are 
undoubtedly good in moderation, like most else in life." 


292 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“ Don’t you think it’s all flummery and gabble-gabble? ” 
she asked drowsily, lifting her jlacon. 

“Miss Darby, pardon me,” he said in some alarm, 
“but where did you get those words? Has Hammer- 
smith been peaching on me?” 

“I don’t know what you mean by peaching on you,” 
she answered, with an air of mischief. “Mr. Hammer- 
smith certainly told me of a droll man in his class who 
used those words in speaking of the society of his fellow 
men and women ; but he did not tell me who he was. It 
cannot be you, Mr. Breese ! You cannot have dreamed 
of sending a brass man to represent you at such a place 
as this ! ” 

“ Don’t make fun of me, Miss Darby ! ” he said, losing 
what pique at Hammersmith’s treachery he may have had, 
as he saw the merry mood in which she treated it. “I 
may have expressed n^self very strongly with Hammer- 
smith, and used a very bold metaphor ; but I must cry 
Peccavi. I certainly used those words, though I did not 
imagine how ridiculous they would sound when quoted 
against me.” 

“Seriously, though, is that the way you think about 
people in general? If so, you must be a very unhappy 
man,” she said. 

“ No,” said he slowly : “I am not more so than most 
men who have their eyes open as they go through life. 
But let us go into the library : it is too noisy here.” And, 
rising, he gave his arm to her, and they went in, finding 
seats near a chiffonniere. 

“ All I meant to imply,” he continued, “ when I tallied 
(o Hammersmith, — I’ll pay him up for retailing my pet 
opinions in this way ! ” — 

“No, promise me you’ll say nothing about it, Mr. 
Breese ! It was entirely uncalled for ; and I am very 
sorry if I have offend 3d in repeating tie words, — for, tc 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


298 


be honest, he did afterwards tell me that it was you who 
had used them, though not till yesterday, when we met 
you at Belmont.” 

“Of course I’ll not mention it, if you so order,” he 
said. “ But what I meant was, that the play is not worth 
the candle ; that there is an immense amount of time and 
energy wasted, — look at those men struggling in the 
galop , for example ! — and no appreciable gain.” 

“I’ve no doubt what you say and think is true, in part, 
Mr. Breese. But really it would be such a sombre world, 
and we should be such long-faced, lugubrious people, 
without just such merry-makings as this, for example, that 
I cannot help thinking it is better not to try to stem the 
current, but take things about as you find them, and be 
cheerful. ‘ Serve God and be cheerful,’ as the old bishop’s 
motto was.” 

“But I’m cheerful enough,” said Breese earnestly. 
“ At least, I hope I am ! ” 

“Oh! don’t let us be personal,” said Miss Darby. 
“ Let us talk of a third person, if you will. I don’t like 
to prophesy, and I don’t like to be rude ; but I cannot 
help thinking that a man or a woman who deliberately, 
for no special reason but a pet theory, goes to work to 
shut himself off from the rest of the world, must inevita- 
bly, sooner or later, repent of it, and cry out for sympathy 
and re-admission, when it is too late ; when he has be- 
come so set in his ways, that he can no longer appreciate 
sympathy, or find the comfortable niche in the world that 
he might have had.” 

“You think so?” asked Breese, who had listened 
carefully to every word of this long opinion. “Must a 
man give up a great deal of time which he may hold 
precious, and a great many ideals for which he is living, 
merely to get this sympathy, as you call it? ” 

“Merely to geo sympathy!” she said. “It shows 


294 


HAMMERSMITH: 


that you must be very heroic and very self-contained, Mr. 
Breese, that you can talk in this way of merely getting 
sympathy. But I forget : we are not to be personal. A 
man or woman, then, must be very heroic and very self- 
centred, who can go on, year in and year out, and not feel 
the need of just such careless merriment as this.” 

“ But I do not see the connection between this careless 
merriment and the sympathy of which you speak ; of 
course you use sympathy in its large Greek sense? ” 

“Of course,” she said. “No? You do not see it? 
Pray, if it is not by keeping the heart warm, the temper 
cheerful, and the feelings receptive, how can sympathy 
ever come? And what else would you expect of these 
young people ? You can hardly expect them as yet to be 
capable of a larger, deeper sympathy, — with the world 
at large, let us say ; to be capable of kindling with tender 
feeling over abstractions and lofty ideas solely? No, Mr. 
Breese, — I beg pardon for being such an orator, — it is a 
difficult task ; but it is every one’s duty, I think, to mingle 
with his fellow men and women, even if at apparent sacri- 
fice. Anybody can be a saint in a closet, shut up by 
himself, away from the things which try him, and against 
which he prays for strength : the hard thing is to come 
Hit with tolerance and dignity, and show one’s strength 
in the crowd.” 

“ I have never thought of it in that light, Miss Darby, 
or known anybody who cared to put it to me so kindly,” 
Breese said slowly, after a pause ; and then he felt sorry 
almost to have said it, it seemed so to bare his feelings. 

Hammersmith returned at this point to announce the 
German favors ready, and the supper-room opened. But 
Miss Darby said she did not care to try the chances of the 
crowd; and Tom went off to forage for her. “Oh! an 
ice, or something,” she said: “ I don’t care for much.” 
— “Better have some bouillon said Tom, “German, 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


295 


j'ou know ; ” and she said, “ Very well,” while Breese sat 
near her, turning over some large Roman and Grecian 
photographs absent-mindedly. 

“ Here is my position in a nutshell,” he said suddenly, 
as an idea struck him ; and he held up several ancient 
heads, of emperors, philosophers, gods, with their calm 
majesty and sturdy strength. “This is what I mean: 
our American society will never produce such men as 
these, or even men who can chisel them or imagine them, 
so long as it is founded on such a set of teetotums as now, 
and everybody is rushing and tearing through life as 
Americans generally are.” 

“Oh! that is another question,” said Miss Darby. 
“We cannot discuss such big themes as that at a party.” 

“ Exactl} r , exactly!” said Breese almost gleefully. 
“ There you side with me, by agreeing that parties are 
only fit for whirling and inane talking. I think I shall 
stick to my old 4 flummery ’ and 4 hoppity-skip ’ doctrine. 
Do you know, Miss Darby, if I were to name this century, 
what I should call it? ” 

“I’ve not the slightest idea,” she answered. “‘The 
Age of the Hoppity-skip,’ or 4 A Hundred Years of Gabble- 
gabble ’?” 

44 No : that might be as well ; but I should dub it 4 The 
Century of Hubbub.’ And America I should call 4 The 
Paradise of Hubbub.’ ” 

44 Well, I’m glad you have not the naming of the cen- 
tury and the country, then,” she added merrily. “They 
would be fine names to go down in history ! — O Mr. 
Hammersmith ! we have been having such a wordy war ! 
Mr. Breese will never want to hear me speak again,” — 
Breese was bowing deprecatingly, — 44 he’s such a severe 
critic ! It’s really quite awful ! ” And she played with her 
ice, and ate it daintily ; while Breese, whose whole soul 
went into every slightest discussion, wondered at the 


296 


HAMMERSMITH : 


remarkable adaptability of humankind, who can slip from 
grave to gay, from matters of moment to badinage, sc 
easily, and asked himself why he felt a certain jar in 
the consciousness of the fact. Not an adaptable man, 
not a man of a fluent nature, evidently. A man whose 
thoughts, as his actions, ran in straight lines, and could 
not accommodate themselves to the quick turns common 
to nimbler minds. A downright man, who could not see 
how a fair young woman, that could sit for a half-hour 
talking seriously to a man, as Miss Darby had just done, 
could be whirling through the gay German the next hour, 
and not one only, but many hours, sparkling with enjoy- 
ment. Where was the discrepancy? Where was the 
fault? — In him, or in existing affairs? in John Breese, a 
junior, or Miss Ellen Darby, the beautiful daughter of the 
beloved professor ? 

Beautiful daughter, did I say? I do not know that I 
have proved it, and I do not know that I intend to do so. 
In fact, I have never been able sufficiently to wonder at 
the boldness of biographers or romancers in naming the 
attractions of a young woman who may come under their 
hands, describing her in a clumsy, masculine fashion per- 
haps, and expecting you instantly to fall in love with her, 
and proclaim her lovely beyond compare. How can I 
describe the indescribable ? How may this blunt pen and 
these flat words set forth the charms, which if I were a 
novelist, and not a plain biographer, I should say, in the 
most emphatic kind of language, with all manner of rosy 
adjectives, neither the painter’s nor the sculptor’s art 
could comprehend and fitly portray ? 

Who can expect to please everybody, moreover ? Who 
can expect that some would not say this, and some say 
that, and many a careful young reader, of the softer and 
the sterner sex alike, exclaim at last, “ Why , I don’t think 
she’s pretty at all ! or he doesn’t describe her so, at anj 


KTS HAItVADD DAYS. 


297 


late ! ” --how could I undertake such tremendous respon- 
sibility, or endure such terrible criticism! And don’t I 
know that her own contemporaries even have their little 
flings at her, finding fault with this or that feature, this 
or that mode of dressing her hair, with her manner of 
smiling, even ? — but what beautiful girl is free from this ? 
And still it is enough to make a poor masculine chronicler 
pause, or turn pale, and at last take refuge in the safe 
generalization, “beautiful.” 

For if Mrs. Lacethroat thinks her eyes of too dark a 
blue, and Miss Dovecot thinks them too light ; and Miss 
Trimmersale says her smile is as haughty as a queen’s, 
and Miss Lillypop declares that she smiles too much, and 
not only that, but too markedly in certain directions ; if 
the Bantam girls of Roxbury say she is too tall, and Miss 
Tallcut (who swoops down upon Cambridge society once 
or twice in a winter, carrying off a student heart or two 
at her girdle after every foray) insists with emphasis 
that she is much too short ; if Mrs. Sticklewaite of Med- 
ford, aunt of the youthful Malachite, thinks her hair too 
light for her eyes, and Mrs. Dandelion, who has had a 
pair of corn-colored daughters on the carpet for some 
years now, (and the market so very, very dull!) declares 
the same hair far too dark, and that the way it shades off 
into a lighter color at the ends is very suspicious, — yes, 
very suspicious, — as are also the lovely rippling waves 
that cover her head, — how, I say, how, under Heaven, can 
I hope to reconcile these conflicting witnesses! How 
can I dare even approach that mysterious shrine, where 
the awful feminine toilet-rites are performed, and at which 
Mrs. Dandelion is evidently so devout a worshipper ! How 
>^an I, a poor male merely, do any thing but fall down afar 
off, with my face to the ground, and exclaim simply, 

Beautiful, beautiful!” as the radiant young devotee 
vomes forth ! 


HAMMERSMITH : 


£98 

No, no ! of whatever else I may be guilty, I cannot 
attempt sacrilege, or dare so much as to touch the crown 
of her fair head with the patter of my poor words. I 
withdraw, I throw down the pen, I seek an asy-lum in the 
above-named generalization, and in the verdict of the 
Fayerweathers, the Summerdales, and a host of others, by 
whom the adjective in question is freely applied to Miss 
Darby. I refuse to attempt the impossible. I can do 
nothing but admire, and give thanks before the sweet vir- 
ginal charms that the old Cambridge elms have seen bud- 
ding beneath them for some eighteen years now (save the 
year and a half that she spent in Europe) , and wonder 
again how the young university men can have allowed her 
all this time to remain — but this is dangerous ground for 
an old gentleman with an eye for beauty to attempt, ana 
again he draws back. 

I can at least, however, refer to these young students 
so far as to say that their verdict, if asked, would be the 
same as that of the Summerdales, the Fayerweathers, and 
that of all sensible people. For I know from undoubted 
authority, (as well as from a fact which I will never divulge, 
no, never !) that they thought her most lovely and charm- 
ing ; that the sky seemed brighter, and brave deeds more 
easy, when they passed her in the Cambridge streets ; 
"happy the man who could lift his hat to her !) that dan- 
cing-parties seemed more dignified and stately when she 
entered the rooms ; and that, at this particular party of the 
Fayerweathers, many a man, and young woman too for 
that matter, exclaimed, “What a remarkably handsome 
couple they make ! ” as Mr. Tom and she led out in the 
pretty figures of the dance that came on later. 

For all these reasons I refuse to do more than repeat 
the slight hints of blue ey^es and fair hair given above, and 
maintain that I am justified in declaring hei beautiful, as 
you, and y r ou, and y T ou, would declare, if you knew wha 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


299 


t know, and if you had sat, as I have, at her hospitable 
table many years, ah, how many ! after this gay evening. 

Every one’s own imagination is the best painter in fill- 
ing in the details of his heroine ; and, with the few bits of 
color which my words and the gossips’ have supplied 
above, everybody may imagine the blue-eyed, rather 
haughty, young beaut} 7 , who has set Breese speculating 
so thoroughly this evening, and with whom we have fin- 
gered rather too long, as she sits chipping the little ice 
that Hammersmith has brought her. 

Supper being over, and while various scurrying students 
were emerging from quiet retreats in which they had been 
enjoying cosey tete-a-tetes , — from under the stairs, from 
off the several landings of the broad stairway, from the 
reception-room, rich in easy-chairs, — Hammersmith ad- 
vanced to Mrs. Summerdale, only less beautiful than her 
fair daughter, and said, — 

“My dear Mrs. Summerdale, will you be so good? — 
will }’ou honor us by taking charge of the favors at the 
head of the German? ” 

“ I shall be delighted, Mr. Hammersmith, if you really 
want me,” she said. Hammersmith assuring her that it 
would give him the greatest pleasure in the world, she 
assented ; and Tom went off to the ball-room to see that 
every thing was in order. 

Men are now rushing about for their German-partners, 
escorting them to their seats,. which are ranged about the 
wall, and removing their handkerchiefs from the chairs, 
where they had tied them by way of pre-emption. The 
musicians file off to the supper-room ; there is a buzz 
and a murmur of voices ; the non-dancers are warned out 
S>f the dancing-room, and gather mournfully about Ihe 
loorways, conscious that they are to be no part of the 
approaching gayety ; and Hammersmith and young Fayer- 
weather are rushing here and there, arranging seats, set, 
dins disouted claims, and clearing the field for action. 


300 


HAMMERSMITH : 


The musicians come in merry and rosy, the cornet* 
player twirling his blonde mustache, and surveying the 
beauties about the room. While the pianist is striking a 
chord or two, and the violinist is tuning up with that pre- 
liminary instrumentation which young Partington thought 
the finest part of the concert, Hammersmith advances over 
the crash-covered floor, with Mrs. Summerdale on his arm., 
carrying in his left hand a sort of May-pole, hung with a 
number of long fluttering ribbons, together with a mass 
of tarlatan, in strips of various colors, which hang from 
his arm, and trail on the floor, as he walks. A servant 
follows, bearing a huge pjn-amid of bouquets, arrayed on 
a frame ; another, with a large white-wood box, filled 
with favors of every sort. 

Hammersmith deposits Mrs. Summerdale by the side 
of the pier-glass : the flowers, ribbons, and other belong- 
ings of her pretty office, are arranged about her ; while 
Miss Pinckney, and other young women with an eye for 
color, exclaim, “ How beautiful! I never saw any thing 
half so pretty ! ” Hammersmith returns with Miss Darby, 
whom he seats next Mrs. Summerdale. He glances about 
to see that all are in place, lifts his hand to the musicians ; 
and, as they sweep into the first swinging measures of a 
glorious Strauss waltz, the first four couples, headed by 
Miss Darby and Hammersmith, start from their places, 
and glide smoothly and gracefully about the room. 

“ A very pretty sight,” said Professor Darby to Mr. 
Gayton Hammersmith, as the two stood in a doorway, 
looking in. “ Your nephew is a generalissimo of the first 
order.” 

“That he is,” chuckled Mr. Hammersmith. “Gad, 
though ! but his mother would be amused, I may say 
horrified, to see her hopeful leading off in a rout like 
this. The lines were drawn rather tight in my brother’s 
family. Your daughter is looking uncommonly well to* 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


301 


night, professor, eh? — Yes, Mrs. Darby, I was just say- 
ing to the professor, that Miss Darby was the belle of 
the ball to-night.” 

“ You’re very kind, I’m sure, Mr. Hammersmith,” bo 
gan Mrs. Darby ; when the professor tapped Mr. Gavton 
on the shoulder, and he turned. 

Tom had clapped his hands ; the couples had stopped 
dancing, and advanced to Mrs. Summerdale for bouquets 
and favors. Mr. Gayton turned, and found Miss Fayer- 
weather, standing within the ring of chairs, holding up a 
bit of red ribbon to him, and saying, as she bent her head, 
“ Mr. Hammersmith ! ” 

“For me?” said the surprised “Duke.” “Thank 
you very much ; but I haven’t danced for five hundred 
years, my dear Miss Fayerweather ! I ” — 

“ No, no, you must ! ” she said, shaking the ribbon. 

“ But I can’t ! I’m an old fossil ! I’m of the age of 
trilobites ! This modern step ’ ’ — 

“Come, come, uncle Gayton!” said Tom, who was 
handing a bouquet to Miss Barlow, near by ; and the 
3’oung gentleman in front of Mr. Gayton, rising politely, 
and lifting his chair out of the way, Mr. Gayton passed 
through, and, with some considerable trepidation, essayed 
the steps of the trilobite age. The young gentleman 
who had risen so politely resumed his seat, saying to his 
partner, — 

“ Why, in the world, won’t these old fellows keep out 
of the way ! ” 

Miss Pinckney exclaimed, — 

“ Isn’t he fun, though ! What a dear old gentleman ! 
Is he Mr. Hammersmith’s uncle?” And Breese looked 
.sn from another doorway, wondering how a man could 
make such a fool of himself. 

A fool of himself ! He was glorious ! lie was superbty 
ji earnest ! He was as gallant as a beau of the last con* 


302 


HAMMERSMITH : 


any ! He was working like a Trojan ! He was a “ dear 
old gentleman ! ” But when Mr. Tom, gliding beautifully 
with Miss Barlow, saw the old gentleman struggling in the 
crowd, and beheld the agile grace of five hundred years 
ago, he whispered to Miss Barlow, Miss Barlow whispered 
to him, and it was the longest, most unaccountably long 
i'me, before Hammersmith stopped dancing, clapped his 
hands, and stood watching the uncle, with difficulty avoid- 
ing collisions right and left. 

“What do I do now?” asked the “Duke,” as he 
stopped, seeing the rest had come to a halt. 

“ Take me to my seat, please, near the pier-glass,” 
said Miss Fayerweather ; and he offered his arm as he 
might offer it to a duchess ; and, bowing profusely as she 
seated herself, he said, — 

“ You know Napoleon was an awkward dancer, like all 
great geniuses. 4 The fact is, beautiful countess/ said 
Napoleon, leading an unhappy partner to her seat, 4 my 
part is not so much to dance myself as to make others 
dance.’ Now, I can’t say exactly the same thing of 
my ” — 

“See here, uncle, you’re in the way here, — Duke 
Hammersmith’s carriage blocks the way!” said Mr. 
Tom, coming up as a new set of dancers went whirling 
over the floor. 

“Ah, pardon Tom! I was thanking Miss Fayer- 
weather for the pleasure of my dance,” and, bowing low, 
lie turned, and was almost floored by young Malachite, 
wildest of prancers. But he recovered himself, looked a 
dagger or two at the young bumper, and made hi3 way 
out of the room, exceedingly warm and rosy, with the 
cut, on his forehead almost as red as the knot of ribbon 
that now ornamented his coat. 

Meanwhile, Breese was looking in at the doorway on 
his first German, his first real party-life in Cambridge. It 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


80 S 


was a pretty sight, it was an innocent scene. There was 
an abundance of youth and beauty, and sparkling life, 
that the most confirmed cynic could hardly withstand. I 
know one man, at least, who hopes he may never arrive at 
that age or condition of life wnen the sight of such juj- 
ous merriment shall be other than pleasant and kindling. 
If he shall ever arrive at such a gloomy period, he will 
surely feel that something is wrong with him, as he 
would feel now, my dear Philippus, if he found that ne 
could not do his thirty miles a day on foot, or his fifty on 
horseback, without wincing. 

. Breese was not the man, however, to admit a fault 
within himself, if it could be saddled on somebody or 
something else. Looking, in a half-sad, half- contemptu- 
ous way, at this gay scene, so different from his ordinary 
evening’s sights, he fell to observing the different couples 
as they sat within view, or moved about through the 
rooms. Above all, he noted the men, largely from his 
own class, and tried to discover the especial pleasure 
which attracted each to such a scene as this. A man, you 
see, that could not take an evening like this as a simple 
enjoyment, a mere pleasant episode, but must needs turn 
it over, and examine it, and ask what it is, what it amounts 
to, — not an especially pleasant man for an idle moment, 
lazy country-house fife, or a merry dancing-party, you 
may imagine, and correctly. 

Hammersmith, for instance, flying about in every 
affection, clapping his hands till his gloves had burst, 
capturing privateers, arranging figures, what pleasure 
could there be in it for him? Miss Darby, to be sure, 
seemed happy and tranquil (tranquillity being an essential 
item in Breese’ s estimate of the perfect condition), and 
was the picture of beauty and refinement as she sat taili- 
ng with Mrs. Summerdale, or rose and danced off now 
tnd then, when she was taken out. But there was Free- 


304 


HAMMERSMITH: 


mantle, looking by this time quite bored to death; almost 
lying down in an unusually easy chair in the corner Of 
the room, evidently making satirical remarks to his part- 
ner, and patronizing the whole affair most emphatically, 
— what good was he getting out of it all, Breese asked 
himself. And Malachite the bumptious, and Fennex the 
bold, and Goldie, sitting statuesquely with his arms 
folded, — Breese was glancing at them all in a casual 
way, when Miss Pinckney stopped before him, holding up 
a little bell, which tinkled as she shook its ribbon. He 
looked behind him to see for whom she meant it ; but she 
said, — 

“ Mr. Breese, Mr. Breese! will you not dance: You 
shall not stand idle here any longer ! ’ * 

“ Thanks, very much ; but I don’t dance,” he said, 
feeling confused, as he saw the whole room watching to 
see whom the gay Southern beauty would take out. 

“ No, really? I’m very sorry,” she said. “ Are you 
joking?” she asked, turning back as she started to go 
away. 

u I assure you no,” he said ; and as he held up a nega- 
tive hand, and seemed truly uncomfortable at being made 
conspicuous, Miss Pinckney sailed away with her tinkling 
bell. 

Breese shortly turned on his heel, made his respects to 
Miss Fayerweather, had a few words with Professor and 
Mrs. Darby in passing, and was going up stairs for his 
coat, when Mr. Gay ton turned to him, and said, — 

“ Going down to the square, Mr. Breese? I will give 
you a lift, if you like. — Time for such a gay young bud as 
I to be shutting up for the night, eh, professor? — Good- 
night, good-night, Mrs. Darby. — Mrs. Fayerweather, a 
great party, a magnifique party ! — I congratulate you • 
congratulate Jack for me ; many happy returns all round t 
Did you see me on the floor? Great swell, eh? Don ’ 4 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


305 


let my youngster dance till prayer-time ! that’s all I have 
to say. — By-by, Charlie, by-by. Come and see a fellow 
when you can ! — Ah ! thanks, I don’t care if I do ; I’ll 
smoke it, going in.” And with such garrulous talk, 
which had been kept up the entire evening, only we had 
not the chance of hearing him, the old philosopher bowed 
himself away, and was soon muffled up for his ride to 
town. 

“ Going to walk down? ” asked Albemarle of Breese, 
in the dressing-room. 

“ Hammersmith’s uncle is going to give me a lift, I 
believe,” said Breese. 

“ Conceited idiot ! ” thought Albemarle. “ Getting to 
be such a swell, that he’ll have nothing to do with the rest 
of us soon ! Commend me to a parvenu for airs.” 

“Eh, Albemarle,” said the “Duke,” coming up, 
“} t ou leaving too? Go with us! Gad, I think we can 
all squeeze in! I’m a light weight, you know!” And 
donning a great-coat, whose dimensions gave the he to his 
joke, he led the way down stairs. The three were soon 
bowling towards town over the frosty ground, at a spank- 
ing gait, the eldest rattling on about the party, Albe- 
marle thinking him a good deal of an old humbug, and 
Breese listening with somewhat alarmed amusement to 
the “ Duke’s ” rather free criticism of different people at 
the party. 

The bonbon figure was in progress as the three had 
come down stairs ; its fight explosions and small cannon- 
ades filling the rooms with a pretty tumult of noise and 
sham fear. It was as nothing, however, to the tumult and 
doubt which were filling Breese’s mind, and upsetting the 
tranquil pose of his old opinions, as the “ Duke ” stopped 
his coupe in Harvard Square, and Breese and Albemarle 
separated to go to their rooms. 

But Gen. Hammersmith and Lis party went skirmish- 


806 


HAMMERSMITH: 


ing far into the morning, with all the bright allies that 
fresh hearts and spirits, happy faces, and the joyous time 
of life, can give. Those who will may follow them in 
imagination, winding their pretty ribbons through the 
night, and flashing defiance in the face of grief and care, 
sickness and failure. Ah, that all this freshness must fade, 
and this ga } 7 life put on its weeds ! Those who would 
rather may follow Breese, the successful scholar of the 
day, the strong, self-centred man, as he had been called 
this evening, and imagine, if they may, the rack on which 
his cherished ideals are stretched. 

Was she right? Was there danger of his becoming 
selfish and narrow, cold and unlovable, if he kept to his 
lonely career? Was it all a failure, this strenuous re- 
solve to which he had lived thus far? Or were these 
frisk } 7 mates of his in the right, and he all wrong ? Poor 
simple questioner, as many simple questioners before him 
have lived, and racked their brains with doubt, and yet 
lived on! Is no questioning good, then? “ What does 
it all amount to, this studying so awfully hard? ” as Miss 
Pinckney had asked him. Was he to be separated for- 
ever from his fellow men and women b } 7 some hard barrier 
of his own making? And why did everybody labor to 
convince him that all his pet doctrines were founded in 
sand ? 

You miserably correct, who have had no temptations to 
wander, and so shall have no praise, — in this place at 
least ; you drivelling dandies, who have had no heroic 
longings, and so cannot so much as imagine a man in 
Breese’ s frame of mind ; you tape-and-yard-stick men, 
trained to conformity, and never daring even to try the 
strength of your chains ; all you who are satisfied with 
the “ mush of concession, instead of a little manly resist 
ance,” as Breese’ s Emerson says, — ma } 7 pass Breese by 
or cal] him a most uncomfortable fellow to have around, 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


307 


— as you probably will. Let it be so! At the comer 
bookshop you shall buy for a dime much, prim heroic 
monotony. Go buy ! I am not to blame that Hammer- 
smith’s life touched, for a certain arc of its circle, upon 
this bizarre man Breese ; I am not to blame that he hap- 
pened in Hammersmith’s class. If there be any who 
feel that a young man’s doubts and longings, trials and 
juvenile straggles, are the making of a stalwart man- 
hood, let them come with us a while, and see what the 
outcome of this case shall be. And if Breese makes an 
anthropological study of an innocent merry-making, and 
would apply the lens of science to everybody about him, 
let us, too, however cursorily, follow his lead, and study 
the student. 


One youngster at the party, paired for the evening with 
the younger Miss Barlow, and radiant, as his own name 
implied, deserves mention, if only out of that respect 
which we owe an old friend met after a lapse of time. 

When Breese’ s eye roamed around the parlors, scan- 
ning the company, it saw, but instantly left (as the man 
of the lens might discard an imperfect beetle, let us say), 
the glowing features of Ruddiman, — Bob, he of the 
green jacket and youthful bibulous habit, now a Harvard 
junior, and basking in florid happiness. 

A ruse of Ruddiman the father was this ; for when 
that pathetic affair of the donkey had taken place, and 
the Yale authorities had decided that it was best for all of 
that stripe to be sent beyond their borders, the parental 
Ruddiman, banker and broker, No. 51 Wall Street, was no 
little exercised in mind as to the career of his young 
hopeful. Bob’s mind had nrt shown that fine edge, or 
that penetrating point, which might enable him to plough 
his way in a learned profession, so called ; nor were his 
mathematics of that accurate character that he might 


308 


HAMMERSMITH: 


safely be intrusted with a counter in his father’s jingling 
office, and with access to the parental money-bags in the 
big vault under the stairs. Reports reaching the Ruddi- 
mans, however, of Hammersmith’s success and creditable 
progress at Cambridge, there came the query, Why should 
not Bob be despatched to that ancient seat of learning, 
with ample largess from the money-bags before mentioned, 
and orders to engage the most expensive tutor that the 
place could furnish, as coach? 

The youthful Ruddiman was not of that eclectic nature 
that he must needs stand on the name or location of his 
Alma Mater, so long as his rather erratic disposition could 
be borne with, and his vast yearning for knowledge of 
every abstruse description could be gratified. And al- 
though the college from which his donkey experience had 
driven him forth commuted his sentence of expulsion to 
one of a year’s suspension, — for golden reasons best, 
known to managers of such institutions, — Ruddiman 
pere was disposed to try fresh fields and different enclos- 
ures for his capering scion. 

So it came about, that Tutor Philpot of Cambridge was 
enabled to bleed the young Ruddiman, and tap the pater- 
nal money-bags, for a too brief period ; that sundry 
haberdashers and stable-men in and around the university 
town had a small rill from the same golden source tric- 
kling into their money-drawers for a much longer space of 
time ; and that at last, with much tribulation, and by the 
aid of the Fates, Bob was through his fresh-junior exami- 
nations, and (losing a year in course, to be sure) was 
admitted a member of Hammersmith’s class. 

Whether Hammersmith was pleased , or not, at this sud- 
den re-union with his old neighbor Ruddiman I have never 
heard him siy. But as the youth in question had retained 
a commendable admiration for Mr. Tom, since the day 
when he had thrashed young Mangul Wurzel, and that 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


309 


later summer, when they and poor Penhallow had beaten 
the little hamlet into such a froth of excitement, — an 
admiration which Tom’s late career had tended to increase 
rather than diminish, — there was considerable genuine 
heartiness in Hammersmith’s welcome of the young fellow. 
And Ruddiman, to say truth, was much altered for the 
better since the earlier days when w r e. saw him before, 
though the permeating effect of the donkey intimacy was 
destined never to be quite outgrown. Hammersmith, 
then, took him kindly by the hand when he came up to 
Cambridge, a classmate (as he honestly and frankly took 
everybody by the hand who deserved his friendship) ; 
inducted him into many of the mysteries, and some of 
the societies, of the place ; and was particularly careful to 
range him well in the matter of Cambridge families, 
divining that their influence would be peculiarly benefi- 
cial to the young man at this period in his life. 

Ruddiman, indeed, was vastly grateful for all this kind- 
ness on Hammersmith’s part ; wrote home the most glow- 
ing accounts of Tom’s position and fame at the university 
(retailing many things which Hammersmith would much 
have preferred should be omitted, if he had had the vise 
of his letters) ; and in a thousand ways developed a facile 
devotion and enthusiasm for Tom, which showed him to 
be a fellow capable of a certain ardent friendship, if he 
was not a commanding genius. 

He had fallen back a year, to be sure ; but what was 
that to a youth hungering and thirsting after knowledge ! 
He had “ gained immensely b}^ the rest from his severe 
studies at New Haven,” as his mother was accustomed to 
remark to sympathizing friends and neighbors ; and who 
shall dispute a mother’s verdict on her offspring? We 
shall be considerably disappointed, then, if we do not see 
him soon climbing to the very top of the rank-list, and 
adding still more golden lustre to the Ruddiman name b} 


310 


HAMMERSMITH : 


virtue of that intellectual rest of which his mother speaks. 
But disappointment is one of the disguised blessings of 
life, which take us quite unawares ; and we shall do well 
to be prepared for it in Ruddiman’s case, as always. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


31J 


CHAPTER XIX. 

AN OLD FRIEND ON THE WESTERN HORIZON. 

" He that is down can fall no lower.” — B utler, Hudibraa. 

I T was well for Hammersmith that the Fayerweathei 
party came off just as it did : it was well for him, if 
he wished to enjoy it, as he continued to, dancing far 
into the morning, and returning to his rooms — plastered 
with stars and ribbons, and other bedizenment, like a 
field-marshal — just as a very dissipated old moon, with a 
fearful leer on its twisted face, was rising over the house- 
tops. 

For, on the Monday morning following, he received 
from the hand of an important senior a solemn missive, 
much bedaubed with reddest of sealing-wax. By noon 
he had carried a number of books, papers, and ink-bottles 
to the rooms of McGregor, in Holworthy ; and by mid- 
afternoon he was busily engaged on those grim, remorseless 
rites which lead up to the stately ceremonies, on an ulti- 
mate Friday evening, of the Hasty Pudding Club, of 
sweetest memory in more than metaphorical sense. 

It is an elaborate, satisfying initiation, over which the 
present chronicler would gladly linger, were he not stared 
in the face by the unhappy fate of some who have dared, 
in times gone by, to reveal to outer barbarians the secrets 
and inner machinery of the dear old society. Suffice it, 
that, before nightfall, it was known throughout the length 
and breadth of the university, that Freemantle, Hammer- 
smith, and Pinckney were initiating for the Pudding ; that 


312 


HAMMERSMITH : 


these young gentlemen appeared running excitedly to and 
from meals and recitations for the space of five days, 
making painfully perfect recitations and painfully hasty, 
silent sojourns at their boarding-houses, chaffed the while 
by expectant classmates ; that on Friday evening they 
appeared going to the club-rooms in elaborate evening- 
dress ; that varied bursts of applause and the noise of 
a curious metallic rapping were heard issuing from the 
windows of the old hall during the evening ; and that on 
the following day appeared in Mr. Tom’s room, over his 
door, a mysterious strip of black cambric, with “ T. Ham- 
mersmith ” in white letters upon it, — a badge which has 
been cherished fondly by that reminiscent youngster, and 
has travelled with him many a mile in various countries 
since the night that it first greeted him returning to his 
room. But more than enough has been said ; and the 
chronicler already begins to quake in his distant exile. 

So Hammersmith came to be received into the ancient 
brotherhood, hobnobbed with the upper-classmen even 
more familiarly than before in the other societies to which 
he belonged, and wrote off an ecstatic letter to his uncle 
Gayton, declaring it the greatest affair that he had ever 
heard of, “ nothing like it in all the world,” and calling it 
by many other enthusiastic boy’s names. In succeeding 
weeks the rest of the first ten from his class were initiated, 
Goldie the first of the lot. In due time, the management 
of the club was transferred to Hammersmith and the 
others ; “ Senior Farewell ” took place ; and Tom’s class 
was fairly installed in the first great organization which 
tied them with their senior year, and caused them to turn 
their eyes more anxiously than ever to that final period of 
their academic career. 

And Tom’s regular college-work all this time? Lord- 
Chancellor Thurlowhad a division of his labors, which may 
appty tolerably well to this period of Tom’s life, as to that 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


313 


of many another young fellow of his temperament in the 
full tide of university enjoyment. “ A part of my work I 
do, a part does itself, and a part I leave undone/ * he used 
to say. If Hammersmith never again duplicated that 
famous examination of his freshman year ; if he never 
again carried home a set of prize books, as at the end of 
his iirst year, which his mother and sister certainly 
thought the very finest and most honorable testimonial 
that the college had ever bestowed, — his success thus far in 
his university life had been as creditable as most of the 
men with whom he, as a young man, naturally compared 
himself. Breese, Albemarle, Totman, — he didn’t care a 
fig for their high rank and academic honors ! Were not 
head scholars proverbially left behind in the race of fife ? 
And why should he not follow his natural inclinations, so 
long as he was sure that they were innocent and natural 
(to use Breese’s own words), and enjoy the fresh and 
pulsing life about him? Was there a prospect that he 
should ever be called on to use all the rubbish of Greek 
and Latin, mathematic formulas and chemical signs, with 
which the first men of the class were loading their heads ? 

How fondly we cherish our pet indulgences, and excuse 
ourselves withal ! And Mr. Tom, pursuing his own course 
pretty selfishly, president of the cosey little A. z/., vice- 
president of the Pudding, second-bass in the Glee Club 
and chapel choir, round-arm bowler for the Cricket Club, 
and general favorite in Cambridge society besides, was 
neither better nor worse than hundred^ who have gone 
before him and shall follow. He did his work as squarely 
as the average, obtained the respect and often the admira- 
tion of the professors and tutors with whom he came in 
contact, and disarmed much criticism and many “ effas- 
cinating opticks of envy,” to use the words of old Chari- 
ton, by a manly bearing and generous temper, coupled 
with a high spirit y and an impulsiveness common to his 


314 


HAMMERSMITH : 


race. We are not presenting him to you as a paragon, or 
as a pattern even for ingenuous youth to imitate, but 
rather as a young gentleman who has been singularly 
thrown on his own resources, who has never turned his 
back upon a friend, or courted a mean popularity, and 
who, in the midst of a thousand perplexities and trials, 
has never lost sight of the sturdy manhood with which he 
had started, and which will yet carry him through, please 
God. 

It may be hard to confess, too, but yet it is undoubt- 
edly true, that his uncle Gayton was right when he said 
that his unlucky Boggle experience, and his intimacy 
with my Lord Tufton, would not operate against him, if 
the true facts in these two episodes were once known. 
Shall I say that all the exaggerated stories which the fer- 
tile freshman brain had brought forth only piqued the 
curiosity and the admiration which followed Hammer- 
smith for a long time afterwards ? Shut up the page, and 
call it a slander, my gentle miss, living on in a calm 
and sinless peace most delightful to behold, or you, my 
equally gentle reverend sir, filling the world with your 
little theorems of men, but reflect if it be not so, and 
if a dash of the devil, and a reputation for tremendous 
powers of iniquity (even if it be an unfounded reputa- 
tion), are not a wofully strong attraction in a man 
ptherwise not much unlike the ordinary Tom, Dick, and 
Harry of the world. And while I have once and again 
declared that Hammersmith has been grossly maligned 
in the matters above mentioned, that while he may 
have been infinitely silly, and a dupe of the most vulgar 
coquetry and a remarkably well-laid plot, his declaration 
to his uncle was honest, and his honor and good name as 
clear as sunlight, I have also declared, and do here 
again maintain, that, however much may be said to the 
contrary, all this bitter slander and foolish report only 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


315 


added to the piquancy of his reputation, and to the num- 
ber of times that he was proclaimed a dear, delightful 
fellow by various young creatures, to impugn whose 
motives would be to slander angels. There was a pro- 
found fact, if a bitter acknowledgment, in the reply of 
M. de Montrond, when reproached with his attachment 
to Talleyrand: “Heavens! How could one help liking 
him? He is so wicked ! ” 

When Hammersmith and the rest of the Pudding ten 
were proceeding to elect other members from their own 
class, there had suddenly occurred one of those dead- 
locks to which congresses of men are subject, and which 
seemed likely to block their wheels for an indefinite 
period. Hammersmith and four of his friends had set 
their hearts on securing the election of Breese into their 
society : the other five would have none of him. High 
words followed, excited sessions of the Council of Ten, 
heated canvassings outside and inside the club, frequent 
rumors throughout the college of this and that settlement 
and issue from the entanglement. Everybody soon learned 
the reason why no elections followed. Breese himself 
was kept posted by the tragic Ruddiman on all the wild 
gossip in circulation. The dead-lock seemed likely to 
last forever, till the name of Ladbroke was presented by 
the opponents of Breese ; when Hammersmith and his 
party seized upon this name, to which they were equally 
opposed, as a means of effecting a compromise. 

More excited canvassing, many days more of club- 
meetings, — the result of which was, that a compromise 
ticket of some twenty or more, including both Breese and 
Ladbroke, was carried through late one night. Immedi- 
ately afterwards Hammersmith rushed triumphantly to 
the rooms of Breese, to whom he had been careful to say 
nothing thus far of the negotiations, though fearful that 
the news of their progress might reacn him otherwise. 


316 


hammersmith: 


“Hurrah, old boy! Let me congratulate you,” he 
shouted. “Pudding man, by Jove! though I'm run- 
ning a dreadful risk in saying any thing to you about it 
before you are officially notified.” 

“ Humph ! ” said Breese. “Missouri Compromise car- 
ried through at last? ” 

“What in thunder do you mean by ‘Missouri Com- 
promise? ’ ” asked Tom, checking his enthusiasm a bit as 
he saw Breese’ s cold reception of the news. 

“ I mean to inquire if the estimable Ladbroke and I 
have been put in the scales together, and found to balance 
each other.” 

“ O gammon, Breese ! ” said Tom excitedly. “Don’t 
look at it in that light ! I tell you the best fellows in the 
ten were anxious to have you in from the start ; and we 
had to swallow Ladbroke, because his party was so stub- 
born, that’s all.” 

“I don’t see that that alters the fact that one objec- 
tionable man has been let in to offset another equally 
distasteful. Isn’t that about it? ” asked Breese. 

“ But confound it ! Forget all that ! Why, you don’t 
mean to say that }^ou are not glad you’re in, after all ! ” 

“ In what? ” 

“In the Pudding, of course! Didn’t I say that you 
•lave been elected? ” 

“But a man isn’t a member till he has signified his 
willingness to join, is he?” 

“ Look here, Breese, what under Heaven is the row? 
I propose your name willingly, gladly. Some fellow who 
doesn’t happen to like you as well as I (and we all have 
enemies) objects. My friends stand up for you ; the other 
crowd gets its back up. We fight away for several days 
and at last succeed in putting the thing through by ac- 
cepting an insignificant fellow that we do not like. You 
don’t say that you are going to repay me for all this work 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


317 


oy refusing to join ? It would be putting me in a pretty 
dox ! ” 

“ I’m sure I am as grateful to you, Hammersmith, as 
though ever}' thing had gone smoothl}' from the start. 
Your kindness in the matter is the only thing that makes 
me feel like saying, 4 Yes.’ But I should despise myself, 
I should not enjoy my membership, I should feel that half 
the men in the club regarded me as an interloper, I ” — 

“But you’re not an interloper,” said Tom. “You 
are elected squarely and honestty. Every one of the 
twenty might feel exactty the same as you do, with equal 
propriety. And I’m sure you’d find it hard work to make 
any of them call themselves interlopers.” 

“I can’t help that,” said Breese. “I am not respon- 
sible for another man’s view of the matter. I only know 
how it strikes me.” 

“ But if you only knew how unanimous the election 
was ! ” pleaded Tom. 

“ Unanimous on Ladbroke and me!” said Breese. 

“ Yes, and the whole ticket ! And if I could only tell 
you what we do up there, and what a grand old society it 
is ! ” 

44 You’re veiy kind, Hammersmith. Don’t think I’m 
speaking against you, my dear fellow, or meaning to be 
ungrateful for what you meant as the greatest kindness, 
I’ve no doubt. If you had said a word to me before, 
about this, I might have told you then, as now, that I 
can’t think of joining.” 

44 But the rules of the society,” began Hammersmith. 

44 Yes, yes, I know,” said Breese. 44 1 know it was 
not possible for you to speak to me of it beforehand ; 
neither is it possible for me to do what my own club- 
rules — a little society of one, that I’ve had charge of 
for about twenty-two years now — will not allow. It’s 
no use trying to make oil and water unite, Hammersmith. 


818 


HAMMERSMITH : 


There’s a set here that never would have any thing to dc 
with me, if their own salvation depended upon me — and 
Heaven be praised that it does not ! Perhaps I’ve been a 
fool in trying to keep up an interest in their life and their 
sports, and in going out at all from the quiet seclusion 
in which I used to live. I had an idea that a man was 
better for joining, as far as possible, in the interests about 
him ; and now I begin to see that it is all a waste of time. 
I might as well go back into my shell, and give up the 
attempt to unite a studious life with things that have no 
possible natural relation to it. If I had a little more 
nioney, and were a little more of a swell, I might have a 
different feeling in the matter.” 

So they argued on ; Hammersmith doing his best to 
convince Breese that he was wrong, that he was slander- 
ing many very good fellows, who would be glad, mighty 
glad, to see him in the club, Breese insisting that he 
could not alter his decision, until at last Hammersmith 
gave it all up, and rose to go, not in the best of moods. 

“For Heaven’s sake, Hammersmith,” said Breese 
warmly, coming forward, and holding out his hand, 
“don’t let us be separated for this small matter! 
You’ll shake hands?” 

“ Of course I will,” said Tom, grasping and wringing 
the great hand of Breese. ‘ c But I’m disappointed, Breese, 
I’m bitterly disappointed. I had anticipated so much 
pleasure in seeing you up there among us ! ” 

“ Believe me, I’m infinitely more sorry than you can 
possibly be,” said Breese. “But you are the last man 
to wish me to do a thing that I think would belittle me in 
try own eyes, Hammersmith.” 

“Certainly: you’re right, I’ve no doubt, — from you. 
stand-point at least ; only I’m sorry that you have such 
a stand-point.” 

“ But I have,” said Breese, “ and it cannot be helped 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


31 9 


Thank you again, Hammersmith, for all you’ve done for 
me, not only in this matter, but since we have met here in 
Cambridge. No, don’t say you have done nothing ! I 
know better ; and I know, that, if you were to turn your 
back on me, I should be lonely and miserable indeed.” 

44 O Lord ! ” said Tom. 44 No danger of that, old fel- 
low ! ” And, pressing his hand again warmly, he went 
out, more perplexed than ever at the enigma Breese, not 
daring to think of the ridiculous position in which he him- 
self would be left, after all these weeks of struggle and 
this* laborious compromise, and not reflecting, that, if he 
had been in Breese’ s place, he would have been as stub- 
born and set in his view as Breese, if not more so. It is 
impossible to project one’s self completely into another’s 
position and frame of mind. Tom could not conceive of 
a man with so delicate a sense of the proprieties and his 
own dignity as to allow them to interfere with his personal 
pleasure and his membership of the Hasty Pudding Club. 
But then, Hammersmith, with his eager appetite for enjoy- 
ment, was not Breese, with his equally keen pursuit of 
quite other objects, and his delicate balancing of every 
slight matter in the sensitive scales of his ideal nature ; 
and the two could never, by the slightest chance, be 
brought to weigh their actions in exactly the same poise 
of mind. What two men can? 

The wonder, excitement, perplexity, aroused by this 
ultimatum of Breese ’s, not only among the Pudding 
members, but throughout the undergraduates, were some- 
thing unprecedented. 44 What a fool! ” 44 Catch Lad- 

broke following suit! ” 44 1 should think Hammersmith 

would throw him over now *’ 44 Oh, hang him ! he only 

does it to be odd ! ” — such was the reception that he had 
among the men about him, for the most part. More cal- 
culating heads saw in him a man to lead the opposition to 
Ae Pudding in the coming class-elections of next year ; 


320 


HAMMERSMITH : 


and the anti-Pudding element, always strong, and waging 
usually a Guelph-and-Ghibelline war, took him up at 
once. Rival societies applied to him. But no, he would 
join no society. He was very much obliged ; but he had 
no intention of joining any more college societies. The 
Institute of 1770 had been enough to show him that they 
were 44 mostly a farce,” he said. 44 And I am very much 
obliged to you, gentlemen ; but I cannot join you.” 

44 What a fool to think of refusing to go into the Pud- 
ding ! ” said Wormley, in his senior window-seat. 

“Yes, by Jove! You wouldn’t have been troubled 
that way, if they had asked you, would you, Wormley? ” 
asked his chum Rubbadub, smoking a pipe just too long 
to be lighted by himself. 4 4 Here, old boy, please be 
good enough to light me, will you?” giving him a match. 

So Hammersmith failed in his well-meant wish to have 
Breese with him in the Pudding, and, despite his efforts 
to the contrary, found himself slipping into the general 
quadrangle verdict, that Breese was immensely silly to 
split hairs on such a trifle, and cut himself aloof from 
what might have been an extremely diverting and useful 
association for him in many ways. But the world sur- 
vived the shock of this startling event, which had shaken 
Jie smaller college sphere to its centre ; and the nine- 
da}^’ wonder gave place to others equally extraordinary. 
Breese, who had been the least disturbed of any con- 
cerned, settled down into the even tenor of his way, be- 
guiled only by occasional excursions into Cambridge 
society, to which the Fayerweather party had been the 
prelude. 

44 Mr. Hammersmith,” said Miss Pinckney archly, at 
one of the small routs of the latter part of winter, — a 
mixture of feminine working for the poor, music, dancing 
und other diversions which easily suggest themselves tG 
yiventive young minds, — 44 Mr. Hammersmith, you must 
be an awfulty wicked man.” 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


321 


“ I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Tom, putting down a 
piece of music which he was fingering by the piano, and 
looking inquiring. 

“ You must be a very wicked man, I say. I have 
heard such a funny story about you ! Did you really rim 
away with somebody last year? ” 

“Oh, yes, indeed ! ” said Tom. 

“ And did her father catch you just as you were going 
into somebody’s office to get married? ” 

“Certainly,” said Tom, “true as gospel.” 

“ And did you have a duel with him ? What fun it must 
have been ! ” 

“Oh, yes ! I had a duel with him, — on the common, 
parade-ground, you know. Invited the governor and 
suite, mayor and aldermen, and the whole college, to wit- 
ness the fun ! Old party wouldn’t stand his ground. I 
chased him up Beacon Street, up the State-house steps, 
straight up the State-house dome ; and, just as I was catch- 
ing his coat-tail on the very top, he gave a jump from a 
window, and has never been heard from since. I believe 
he landed somewhere in South Carolina.” 

“ Now you’re making fun of me ! ” she said. “ But 
you are only trying to cover it up. You are very wicked, 
I know you are ! ” 

“ How do you know it? ” asked Tom. 

“Oh! I shall not tell you, I shall not tell you. But, 
del! I don’t mind it. Most men are such tiresome crea- 
tures ! ” 

“Yes, and life is such a bore! ” said Tom, imitating 
ner languid manner. 

“ They do nothing but dance and flirt in such a silly 
way ! ” 

“ In which they have such silly, silly company ! ” added 
Tom. 

“ Mr. Hammersmith, you are very queer. Why do 
you mimic me so? ” 


822 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“ I beg 3 T our pardon,” said Tom. “ I was only trying 
to agree with you. Eve^body seems to know my own 
affairs so much better than I myself that I thought I 
would give up my private opinion, and side with them — 
and with you.” 

“ But I thought you would contradict me,” she said. 

“ I supposed so ; consequently I agreed with you.” 

“Well, I think you are very extraordinary,” she said. 
And the young girl, who was used to having men bow 
down before her, and meet her half way in her juvenile flir- 
tations, was quite at her wits’ end to comprehend this new 
species of mankind, who treated her light advances as so 
much chaff. 

Miss Fayerweather came forward to sing ; and Miss 
Pinckney and Mr. Tom sat down on a sofa at hand, the 
brilliant beauty not a little nettled at Hammersmith’s 
obstinate severity. Hadn’t half of his class already con- 
fessed themselves her slaves? Wasn’t Ruddiman, in fact, 
at this moment, allowing his young heart to burst in 
yonder embrasure, whence he saw the dangerous Hammer- 
smith talking so earnestly with the young woman whom 
he worshipped ? Collect yourself, my Ruddiman ; for Ham- 
mersmith has no thought of trespassing on your preserves, 
but rather is infinitely amused with the small deer at his 
side, watching her artless gambolling ! 

“ Do you hear ever from your friend Mr. Penhallow? ” 
she asked, when the murmurs of applause that followed 
Miss Fayerweather’ s song were dying out. She turned 
towards him with an almost haughty air, which made Tom 
smile, and say to himself, “Aha! piqued, by Jove! 
Didn’t bring me down as she meant, eh?” But he 
answered coolly, — 

“No, I’ve not heard a word from him yet ; expecting 
letters every day. His sister tells me that he wrote from 
the isthmus, — oh! several months ago; and I am quite 
anxious to hear from him. Did 3*011 know him? ” 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


323 


“No. But my brother used to write very often of him 
— and of others among his friends,” she added, after a 
pause. “He said he was such a nice fellow!” — this 
with a slight nuance of meaning, as though she would 
imply that some other men, whom she knew and might 
mention, were not “ such nice fellows,” but were exceed- 
ingly disagreeable and obstinate, and thoroughly extraor- 
dinary. Hammersmith smiled to himself ; and Ruddiman, 
who thought that this thing had lasted about long enough, 
marched boldly across the room, bowed before Miss 
Pinckney, asked her for the dance that was just beginning, 
and was soon deep in bliss, whirling about the room. 

“ What a very droll fellow your friend Mr. Hammer- 
smith is, Mr. Ruddiman ! ” the slighted beauty whis- 
pered as th§y danced. “ I have never met so peculiar 
a man.” 

“ I wouldn’t trust him too much,” said Ruddiman the 
flashy, who really thought Hammersmith a most trust- 
worthy fellow. “ Dangerous man ! ” 

“ I like people that I can trust, Mr. Ruddiman, don’t 
you? ” she said. And he looked up at her with a happy 
smile, and, oh, such a satisfied air ! And she asked him if 
he were never coming for that horseback-ride of which 
he had spoken ; and he declared — to dance-music — that 
he should come the very next day, if she would allow him. 
She said, “I shall be so happ} r ! ” and what a beautiful 
horse she had seen him riding. And the little man 
twinkled with pleasure, and continued to dance faster and 
faster, and kick out his little legs in a manner wonderful 
to behold. We can leave him and the rest in this pleas- 
ant pastime, beguiling the long-drawn evening. 

Something in his evening’s mood, and perhaps the 
sight of Miss Darby refusing to dance, and talking long 
with Breese at the other end of the room, made Hammer- 
smith leave before supper was announced, paying his 


324 


HAMMERSMITH : 


respects to the hostess as unobserved as possible, and 
making excuses to her for going early. 

He was very glad to receive, not many days after his 
brief crossing of swords with Miss Pinckney, the follow- 
ing merry letter from his old chum, Penhallow : — 

Simi Rancho, Ventura Co., Cal., Feb. 23, 186-. 

My dear old Fellow, — Peccavi , peccavi. What shall I 
«ay for myself for letting all these months slip by with never a 
word to you, my dear Tom ? My only excuse is, that I have been 
in the saddle for weeks together now, pegging over the country in 
every direction, with Simmons and without him, and that I have 
hardly touched pen to paper since I struck this glorious country, 
except, of course, to scratch off a dutiful line now and then to 
my people in Milton. I shall hope that you have seen some of my 
letters home, describing my trip out, the wonderful ride across the 
isthmus, my landing at San Diego, with a man named Harrison, 
from Philadelphia, the account of my “bucking” horse Diablo, 
which I bought at San Diego, after he had nearly killed me on the 
beach, and my overland trip to this place. I have not time to 
write about all these things now, at any rate; for I have a piece of 
news for you. 

Whom, of all people in the world, as the young women say, do 
you think I met in Los Angeles ? We had come into the place 
from the south, through its lowest and most un-American quarter, 
and were walking our horses through the streets, lined with white 
adobe houses, and were reading the odd Spanish signs, Panade - 
ria, Aguila d’Oro, Botica Espaiiola , and so on, when I heard my 
name called, “Penhallow, Penhallow!” I looked around, and 
saw at the door of a saloon (the most frequent institution in the 
country) a fellow with a close-cropped head, and long blonde 
mustache, wearing the little white apron of a bar-tender. He was 
beckoning to me; and, as I had not heard my name called so 
unmistakably for weeks, I turned my horse, and went up to the 
sidewalk. 

“You don’t know me ? ” he asked. 

“ You have the advantage of me, sir, I’m afraid,” said I. But 
he smiled; and who that has ever seen that wily smile could forget 
it? It was Tuft on, our old pal, our old arch-fiend, Tufton! My 
first impulse, remembering the roving commission that you had 
given me, was to dismount, and thrash the fellow on the spot 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


325 


But there was something so inexpressibly silly in seeing the old 
swell standing there, with his shaved head, and spotless bib on, 
that I could hardly associate him with any thought of revenge. I 
thought that he had sunk low enough, in Heaven’s name, and that 
you would forgive me if I did not fulfil the letter of my contract. 
You would have laughed to see the fellow! 

He was, of course, immensely surprised to see me out here, 
asked where I was going, and so on, and insisted that Harrison 
and Rshould dismount, and partake of his hospitality. Imagine 
it, Tom, if you can! — and don’t think I am drawing on my own 
imagination, which this country is apt to stimulate I will allow, 
— imagine me going in, and seeing this quondam dainty swell 
presiding behind a bar (better by far than most about him, as I 
could see at a glance ; and, to do the fellow justice, he had every 
thing as neat as wax). But imagine him standing there, and deal- 
ing out fire-water and aguardiente to rakish-looking Mexicans, 
and squeezing the lemon of the country for the more elaborate 
decoctions of Americans ! By Jove ! it was as good as a play, and I 
think I had my revenge, Tom, then and there. But, confound the 
rascal ! he seemed to carry it off as though it were the most natural 
thing in the world, laughing and joking with us about our trip, 
and showing the same imperturbable sang-froid as of yore, when 
he entertained you and me, and other young fools, in his swell 
rooms in Cambridge, and ordered about old What’s-his-name, his 
man. Do you know, Tom, seeing him as I did in Los Angeles, 
and the easy and natural way in which he went through his work, 
I am more than half convinced that Goldie (dear old Goldie, how 
I should like to see him again !) was right in thinking that the 
fellow was an impostor and a fraud from the very start, and had 
been at this glorious profession of bar-keeping before. 

But when he asked if I would not step in and see his wife, and 
I went into a small, low room in the rear of his place, and was in- 
troduced to Mrs. Tufton, — “Mr. Penhallow from Cambridge,” 
— Tom, my boy, you might hare knocked me down with a 
feather. Tufton, in fact, saw my surprise and confusion, and 
considerately added, “You hardly expected to see us out here, 
eh ? ” for on my word, Tom, sitting at a low table, and working 
at some feminine work or other, looking as pretty as a peach, and 
blushing as she rose to offer her hand, was the Boggle 1 , by all that’s 
holy! I couldn’t do any thing but shake hands with her, — I sup- 
pose you know how that feels, you old rascal ! — and stammer out 
something about being very much surprised, and so on (a lot of 


326 


HAMMERSMITH : 


rubbish, I dare uay), and made tracks mighty soon, you can de- 
pend on it, under pretext that I had a friend outside, Harrison 
having gone back to have an eye on our horses. 

What is that for news ? as the Germans say. I made a fool of 
myself, talking to her, I know I did! But I hadn’t spoken to a 
woman for weeks, and I never could carry off such an affair as 
you could, Tom: I’m not up to it. I was so mightily afraid, too, 
that something would be said about Cambridge, or you, Tom, 
when I know I should have lost my temper, and done something 
foolish; so that beyond telling you that she looked as pretty and 
trim as ever on the boards in Boston, and that she smiled on me 
most bewitchingly when I left, and begged that I would come 
again and see her if I had time, I can tell you nothing. You can 
form your own conjecture, as I do, about her relation to Tufton, 
past, present, and future. One thing I do not believe, that she is 
the daughter of old Boggle of the theatre ; but I have no reason 
especially to give for my doubt. I simply feel that she is not, and 
that she was merely palmed off as his daughter for the money- 
extracting purpose, which some people know more about than I. 

Isn’t this a pretty go ? — to come out here friendless and alone, 
as I did, and run across two such delightful old friends of yours 
and mine ! I assure you, if it seems odd to you, reading it here 
in black and white, it seemed queerer still to me actually to see 
and press the hand (how she does shake hands, Tom! ) of the 
woman that did so much to make your sophomore life miserable. 
I could hardly believe my own eyes. 

Tufton, I must own, behaved as well as was possible under the 
circumstances. He never opened his head about the past, having 
calculated correctly, as he always did calculate, that the less said 
the better; and, when I was setting off the next morning from 
the hotel, he actually appeared, — on a mighty fine mount, by the 
way, — and insisted that I should allow him to accompany me 
part way on my journey. But this was a little too much, and I 
snubbed him roundly for his pains, you may be sure, as I did 
also, when he had the additional effrontery to press my acceptance 
of a huge Colt’s revolver that he carried. I was not going to be 
under obligations to the fellow; and, after receiving directions as 
to my route, I sprang into saddle and was away, leaving him talk- 
ing with Harrison, who remained at Los Angeles. 

How I have not obeyed orders, Tom, as I know quite well. I 
will gallop back to Los Angeles and despatch him out of hand, if 
you say so ! But I always did like a free translation, you kn ow 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


327 


End so I have not interpreted your instructions verbatim et litera- 
tim. You would have had your revenge, as I had, if you could 
have seen him. 


Simmons is a magnificent, dashing fellow: Goldie or McGregor 
would kidnap him at once for the crew, if they could lay eyes on 
him; and yet, with all this wild life and danger, he’s as gentle as 
a woman, and a perfect gentleman. He has had some unhappy 
experience with somebody in the East, — some young woman, I 
believe, — and that’s the reason he has exiled himself out here; 
I don’t know any thing about it, though, and do not know him 
well enough to inquire; but I’m sorry for the young woman 
that could have the heart, or the heartlessness, to throw over such 
a stunning fellow. He never mentions a woman’s name I’ve no- 
ticed. How you susceptible fellows are all, sooner or later, tripped 
up in the same old way ! while as for me, and such as me, a fig 
for a whole caravansary of the treacherous sex ! 

I thought that I knew how to ride, my dear Tom, and that, 
when you and I used to scour the fields about Milton (remember 
our taking old Freeman’s fence, and riding down his brood-mare 
that day?) we were doing some pretty fair riding. But you should 
see Simmons, and the fellows out here generally ! He never thinks 
of using the stirrup to mount! One hand in the horse’s mane, and 
he vaults, without apparent effort, into the saddle, and is plunging 
the spurs into his horse’s flanks long before he can catch his stir- 
rups. And then the way he tears across country, and up and 
down hills where we would probably dismount, or go at a snail’s 
pace! It’s fearful on horses, though. 


You know how you used to rave about an out-door life, mid- 
dle ages, tilting up and down the world, and living with your 
horse and your gun. Well, my dear fellow, here’s your chance, 
and here’s your man for squire, Sancho Panza, or whatever you 
will dub me. Only come, and I will promise to do any thing, be 
any thing, except to be any thing other than your most devoted 
old chum and partner as of yore. 

You would find us in a comfortable old adobe in the midst of 
« pretty oak-glade; a little b™ok behind the house, a hammock 
slung under the trees, the “Boston Advertiser” and “Tran- 
script,” with most of the new books, scattered about, a corral full 
of horses for Hammersmith, sumamed CeZer, to mount, and no 
ind of pipes and tobacco for my lord to console himself withal, 
srhen the Machado Senorita shall not smile. 


328 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Write me as fully as you can, and tell me all tlie news. How 
is Goldie, and Pinck, and your original friend Breese? And are 
you still holding out about your rowing ? They must miss you 
like sin in the old boat, old boy ; and I do not see how you can be 
so firm. The Pudding elections must have come off long before 
this, and I am very curious to hear of them. I shall be much sur- 
prised if you are not in the first ten, you old rascal ! 

Tell me, too, who is the successor of the Boggle, and what 
other rosy and more respectable little affairs you have on hand ; 
for you can no more keep out of them than my old Diablo yon- 
der can help stuffing himself with alfilerilla when he gets a good 
chance, and you know it 1 Remember me to all the fellows, particu- 
larly to Pinckney and Goldie, — yes, and Freemantle, and, when- 
ever you can find nothing better to do, just scratch off a line to 

Your devoted old chum, 

Pen. 

How is Baldy? Does he carry you as well as he used to, or 
do you overweight him a bit now? I would give a good deal if I 
might pop in upon you some fine day on my little mustang, with 
my silver spurs as big as a saucer, and my heavily-leathered sad- 
dle! It would make a jolly sensation in Harvard Square, I can 
assure you ! But, as I have hinted above, I should be afraid of 
asking you to join me in a little canter across country, — “three’s 
a crowd,” you know; and I fear that Baldy has learned to accom- 
modate his step to some other gentle stepper by his side, long 
before this, and might tell strange stories of the afternoon pastimes 
that he has been made a party to, if the old fellow could have his 
say. Shun ’em, shun ’em, Tom, my boy! or you’ll burn your 
fingers again, without a doubt; and then, when you come out 
here, I shall have a couple of broken-hearted fellows on my hands, 
and I shall be the only sensible one in the crowd. 

Simmons sends his kindest regards to you, and says, “Tell 
him we’ll present him with the freedom of the city and the ranch, 
if he’ll come out, as many horses as he wants to ride, and a fine 
sunset for supper every evening of his life.” So you’ll have to 
come and take him at his word, though I can promise you that 
sunsets will not be all that you can have for supper, unless we 
become immensely more aesthetic than we are at present. By- 
by, old fellow. 


Yours, 


Pen 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


329 


CHAPTER XX. 

A ’varsity accident and more revelations. 

“Mordre wol out, that see we day by day.” — Chaucer. 

“Hectora quis nosset, felix si Troja fuisset? ” — Ovid. 

L ADBROKE had been kept to his winter work in prep- 
aration for the ’Varsity even more successfully than 
Goldie and McGregor had dared hope. The most severe 
of bow-oars, as McGregor was universally acknowledged 
to be, could not have desired more faithful labor at the 
dumb-bells and clubs, and a more careful attention to the 
rules for the crew, than Ladbroke had given. The most 
expectant and patient of strokes, as Goldie unquestionably 
was, could hardly have wished for better form and more 
vicious pulling, as the phrase goes, than Ladbroke dis- 
pla} r ed at their first row of the following season, when 
crowds gathered every evening at the boat-houses, every 
man in the crew was carefully criticised, and, above all, 
their general working as a crew became a matter of the 
most eager interest. 

Succeed at Worcester? Of course they would ! There 
had been no crew like this, for years, in either college. 
Men felt sure of it. Professor Darby, looking on every 
evening from one of the lower bridges as they shot under, 
had declared it as his opinion ; and the university spirits, 
none too cheerful after the defeat at Worcester last year, 
were rising day by day as the fresh spring evenings came 
round, and the crew day by day took on a better stjde, 
and pulled together more as one man. Goldie was glori 


330 


HAMMERSMITH : 


ous, as always ; Loring, pulling at No. 2, was only infe- 
rior to Goldie as a finished, powerful oar ; Ladbroke was 
regarded as the great man in the waist of the boat ; and 
from Goldie to McGregor, chief of bow-oars, every man 
was equal to his position. 

“ They’re taking a mighty long pull to-night!” said 
Freemantle in a crowd of men at the boat-houses, one 
evening. “ Can any thing have happened ? ” 

“ Oh, no ! ” said somebody. “ Mac is only coaching 
them ; that’s all. He likes to get them up above there, 
where he can have them to himself, and give them a 
piece of his mind.” 

“ By Jove ! I’m glad he hasn’t me to give a piece of 
the aforesaid mind to,” piped up a senior, — young Rub- 
badub, the long-stemmed smoker. 

“ Coals to Newcastle? ” asked Freemantle, turning to 
Rubbadub. “By Jove! who’s that?” he said, looking 
up the river. 

Two men in ordinary dress, and two in the thin rig of 
boating-men, with bare arms and necks, handkerchiefs 
about their heads, were seen running towards Cambridge, 
across the upper bridge, at a rapid dog-trot. 

“Lord, it’s Hammersmith and Breese ! And is it 
Goldie? And Ladbroke?” 

“ No, it’s Goldie. But that’s not Lad : it’s Loring ! ” 

“No, — yes, it is: it’s Loring and Goldie. — Come 
along, Pinck : something has happened ! ” And our luxu- 
rious Freemantle, roused by unusual excitement, and in- 
terest in the ’Varsity, started off with Pinckney to meet 
the runners, settling into a steady trot themselves, a 
crowd following at their heels. 

“ What is it? WLat is it? Has any thing happened ? ’ 
they asked, as the runners were met on their way to the 
square. 

“Upset!” said Goldie, continuing to run; “ sneL 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


381 


smashed to smithereens ! Ladbroke nearly drowned ! 
Th .it’s all.” 

c ‘ How did it happen ? Somebody run into you ? ’ ’ asked 
Rubbadub, puffing after them wheezily. 

“ Go to thunder ! ” roared Goldie. “ Who asked such 
an asinine question? Think I’m going to stop here, and 
catch my death of cold? ” And the two crowds of run- 
ners, narrowed down now to the original four, with Free* 
mantle, Pinckney, and a few others, came tearing into 
Harvard Square, to the vast wonder of everybody whom 
they met. 

Two more men in boating-costume soon came jogging 
across the bridge. A milk-cart followed them at a dis- 
tance, emptied of its fragrant cans, and bringing Mc- 
Gregor and Ladbroke, the latter lying half prone in a 
layer of straw, propped up on McGregor’s knees. Lad- 
broke was driven to his rooms outside the quadrangle. 
The milkman would listen to no offer of reward for his 
services. “ Well, then, old man, I’ll see you again some 
day,” said McGregor. “ Thank you very much for your 
kindness.” And the news spread like wildfire through- 
out the university, that the crew had had a bad upset at 
one of the upper bridges, and Ladbroke had been nearly 
drowned, only saved by Breese and Hammersmith dash- 
ing in after him as the two were taking a constitutional 
in that direction. 

“Well, how was it George?” asked Pinckney, as the 
old hero was dressing in his rooms. A great splashing 
of water in a tin hat-tub was heard from an inner room ; 
and out of the midst of the noise came Goldie’s voice to 
the few men in waiting in the outer room : — 

“ Simple enough. That confounded bridge with the 
crooked draw ! I wish some friend of the college would 
have the blamed thing male straight ! We were shooting 
\t all right, with considerable headway, when Mac turned 


332 


HAMMERSMITH : 


his head and saw one of those beastly, low coal-barges 
sticking its nose right across the draw on the other side. 
‘ For God’s sake, hold her hard all ! ’ he shouted. And 
we held her as well as we could ; but it was too late, 
though Mac put the rudder hard port, and repeated his 
command to back her. We struck the old barge with a 
tremendous crash. As much as ten feet of our bow must 
have been smashed to splinters ; and, before we knew 
where we were, one of those whirling eddies had caught 
us, we were thrown back on the piles, and ever} 1- man of 
us was struggling in the water. By Jove I don’t believe 
in these toe-straps ! — at least, in having them so tight. I 
thought I should be drowned myself, at first ; couldn’t get 
my feet clear of the straps for a terribly long time after 
the boat was on its side. I did so finally, however, and 
struck out as well as I could. 

44 The fellows were all about me, Boring astride of the 
boat, Mac treading water amidships, holding on to the 
shell, and the oars bumping about in every direction. 
We could all swim but Ladbroke, you see ; and each fel- 
low had so much difficulty in looking after himself, that 
what with the swift current, which pulls through there 
like a mill-race, the boat and oars bumping into us, and 
the stretcher-straps (which bothered Boring and me, at 
any rate, a good deal) , we had as much as we could do to 
look after ourselves. But when I came up and looked 
about me, I sung out, 4 Where’s Bad?’ and Boring, sitting 
on the shell, was looking about him on every side. 4 There 
he is ! ’ he shouted, pointing to the lower end of the 
bridge ; and, plunging from the shell, he joined me, and 
we struck out down stream. We could see his arms thrown 
up in the air, and then disappearing, — good God, how 
it makes me shiver to think of it ! — and the current was 
hurrying him along so, as he struggled, that we feared we 
might not reach him in time. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


303 


“ We hadn’t taken a dozen strokes, however, — much 
Jess time than it takes to tell it, — when we saw somebody 
run out on a long plank projecting from the bridge, give a 
tremendous spring, and take the most magnificent header 
that I ever saw in my life, Pinck, coming down within five 
feet of where we had last seen Ladbroke’s arms disappear. 
It was Breese ! And if that man isn’t a glorious fellow 
in the water, my dear boy, I never saw one — that’s all! 
Hammersmith jumped in after him ; and, before we had 
reached Breese, he had come up with Ladbroke, who must 
have gone down for the last time. Hammersmith and we 
swam about, him ; and it took us but a moment to land him 
on the marsh, and set to work on him. The other men 
were out by this time. The bargemen helped us out with 
the shell ; and, by the time Mac had captured a wagon of 
some sort, Breese and some of us (by Jove ! he seemed 
to know exactly what to do, and was worth all the rest of 
us put together) — we had brought Lad to sufficiently to 
risk bringing him back to Cambridge ; and we put him in, 
and started off.” 

“Think there’s any danger for him?” asked Free- 
mantle. 

The old stroke, beaming and fresh from his exercise 
and his bath, here came out in a loose shooting-jacket, 
and, ramming his hands into its pockets, strode about the 
room as he continued to discuss the accident. 

“ That’s more than I can say. I hope not, I hope to 
Heaven not ! He has a magnificent physique ; but he 
looked almighty bad when we had nim out on the marsh.” 

“ Can’t he swim at all? ” 

“Not a stroke,” said Goldie. “Great shame! It 
ought to be a sine qua non on a man’s entering a crew ; 
and I’m surprised the thing is not insisted on.” 

“ Shell a perfect wreck? ” 

“ I fear so. I looked at the old thing on the bank, and 


834 


HAMMERSMITH : 


don’t see how it can possibly be fixed up. We’ll have a 
pretty time raising subscriptions for a new one, eh? ” 

“ I’m afraid so,” one of the men said. 

“ Freemantle, let’s go round and see if we can be of 
any sendee at Ladbroke’s,” said Goldie. — “Fellows, 
make yourselves at home : we’ll be back presently.” 

It was no fight matter, this severe ducking that Lad- 
broke had received. He seemed quite himself that even- 
ing, to be sure, when he had had a little food. He saw 
many men who called, talked with them freely on the 
accident, thanked everybody for his kindness in the mat- 
ter, — though all insisted that Breese and Hammersmith 
alone deserved his gratitude, — and the doctor prophesied 
a little fever, possibly a week’s illness, and a speedy 
recovery. 

“Will it be safe for him to row again, doctor?” 
McGregor had ventured to ask after a day or so. 

“ That depends. I think so, if you men will allow him 
perfect rest and quiet, and not let him attempt too much 
after he’s first up.” The medical opinion was immedi- 
ately made known ; and McGregor became almost as good 
as a lackey in the hall of Mrs. Ripraps, Ladbroke’s land- 
lad} 7 , so anxious was he that men should be kept away 
from him to give him the perfect rest. 

The second day, as the doctor had prophesied, fever set 
in. It became much worse on the third ; and his mother 
was sent for from Providence, and came posting, full of 
anxious solicitude, to her boy’s bedside. 

Ladbroke, unconscious at first of the danger that he 
*as running, lulled, perhaps, by the treatment which he 
received, lay for some days in a state of semi-stupor, only 
rousing himself at intervals to inquire if his mother were 
near him, and appearing resignedly happy if she were, 
When the fever seemed breaking, he sent often for one 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


335 


man after another, — Goldie, McGregor, Breese, Ham- 
mersmith, — anxious only to see them, and feel the touch 
of their great brawny hands. 

His mother’s watchful tenderness and careful minister- 
ing, too, — ah, how it comforted him, after his life of 
excesses and selfish pleasures, only lately interrupted by 
this renovating boating experience ! lie seemed entirely 
content to follow her with his eyes as she busied herself 
with one tender duty after another ; and you may be sure 
that all his past wild life came crowding its bitter memories 
into his mind as he lay and watched this loving presence 
moving about him noiselessly, anticipating his wants. 
He talked with her about his Cambridge friends, his pro- 
fessors, his duties, (Heaven knows his letters home had 
been infrequent enough !) and he was filled with pleasure 
when she shared his interest, and spoke approvingly of 
this or that manly young fellow who had just left his bed- 
side. 

Hammersmith had been as frequent a caller as many 
another, no more, no less. When Ladbroke’s fever had 
been apparently broken with effect, however, and he was 
allowed to see people more freely, it was Hammersmith, 
Hammersmith, for whom he continually asked, till his 
mother suggested, with timid emphasis, that she feared 
Mr. Hammersmith might be interrupted in his work, or 
feel that he was giving too much time to her boy. But 
10, he must see Hammersmith again and again. And 
Tom, for his part, looked upon it as exceedingly odd, and 
almost an indication that Ladbroke’s old wandering fit 
had come upon him again, that le, who had been on 
barely speaking-terms with Ladbroke for months now. 
should be so frequently summoned t d his side. 

But could he refuse if he would ? So, day after day, 
evening after evening, he came and sat by the feverish 
roung man, bringing him news of the outside world, — 


336 


HAMMERSMITH : 


how the Cricket Eleven was just about playing a match 
with the “ Aristonicans ; ” how the crew was practising 
only every other day now, with Albertson temporarily in 
Ladbroke’s place ; how everybody was anxious for his 
getting out again ; and how Goldie had declared that they 
were just as sure to beat Yale at Worcester, with Lad- 
broke, as they were of the sun’s rising on the day of the 
race. The poor fellow was delighted and refreshed by all 
this breezy intelligence, coupled with such praise of his 
own powers. His eyes would brighten, and he would ask 
Tom to tell him again of Farley’s famous drive for six on 
the Boston’s cricket-grounds, and what changes Yale had 
made in her crew, and so on ; but Tom could see that his 
mind was working at something, planning something, — ■ 
what he could not imagine. 

Hammersmith was not surprised, therefore, one even- 
ing after Ladbroke’s fever had returned rather alarmingly, 
to receive a note from his mother, saying that her son 
wished particularly to see him, and would he come round 
at once ? 

“ Mother, will you step into the next room for a few 
moments, please? I have something special that I wish 
to say to Hammersmith,” he said when Tom entered. 

“ Certainty, my son. But }’Ou will promise not to ex- 
cite yourself? — He is a little feverish to-night, Mr. Ham- 
mersmith : you will not allow him to talk too much ? ’ ’ 

“ No, indeed, madam ! — Hadn’t I better come to-mor- 
row instead, Ladbroke?” asked Tom. 

“No, no, I want you now ! ” and he pointed to a chair 
near him. His mother went out ; and Hammersmith sat 
down. 

“ Hammersmith, I’ve been wanting to tell you some- 
thing for a long time,” he began, talking hurriedly, and 
then waiting for breath, as in all his conversation of the 
evening. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


337 


“Well, my dear fellow? ” 

“ And now I must tell you, because I’m going to die. 
Yes, yes, I am : you do not know as well as I do. I’m 
never going to walk out at that door again ; I know it, 
and I am trying to be prepared for it. I have been 
such a fool, Hammersmith, such a worthless fellow ! I 
wonder anybody has ever thought me worth speaking to ! 
But the kindness of you men these last days has been 
almost too much for me to bear. I should not dare say 
how I have thought over it all, and all my past follies, 
and prayed, in my poor way, that the Lord might spare 
me a little life, — just enough to show that I can live a 
good life, if I have a few friends to keep me up to it.” 

“ Of course you can, Ladbroke ; of course, you can ! 
Come, don’t run on in this way, old fellow. I know 
you’re going to get well. You must get well. Every- 
body says you are picking up wonderfully, and you’ll be 
out yet to give old Yale the biggest kind of a defeat.” 

But the hot hand which Ladbroke laid now and then on 
Hammersmith’s, and his unnaturally high color and bright 
eyes, belied the cheerful augury ; and poor Tom felt strange- 
ly uncomfortable. 

“ No, no ! You’re very kind, Tom, — let me call you 
Tom to-night : I hear all the men calling you so, but I 
have never dared to ; you know why, — you’re very kind ; 
but I know it can never be. I am going to die ; but I 
must first tell you, I must tell you what has been on my 
mind so long that it has almost driven me wild, especially 
since you have been so kind to me, coaching me in the 
boat with the rest, and saving my poor life just now in 
vhe river. l r es, of course, Breese too, and the rest ; but 
you with them. Tom, it’s about Tufton.” 

“ Oh, no, no ! don’t mind about him, my dear fellow ! 
That’s passed and gone long ago,” said Tom. 

“Yes; but it has not passed out of my mind,” said 


338 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Ladbroke ; “ and it is not what you think, perhaps. You 
know that we had some words once in a freshman’s room 
last year, you and I ” — 

“ But that’s all passed too, Ladbroke. I’m sure I’ve 
forgotten all about it long ago,” pleaded Hammersmith. 

“But I’ve not forgotten it,” answered Ladbroke. 
“And, first, I want to beg your pardon for what I did and 
said that night, Tom. Yes, I do ; and I insist that it was 
beggarly mean and disgraceful in me ! There, I feel better 
already, though I would never have been able to say it, 
probably, if it had not been for all that has happened 
in these last few days, — thank God for them! That 
evening, and the words that we had, seemed to put me 
on the wrong track, somehow ; and I pass over all those 
miserable weeks and months when I was such a wretched 
fool, and you and I never spoke. I am sorry for it now ; 
but I thought I was all right then, and only standing on 
my dignity. 

“ Then Tufton and you were so thick, and I was pretty 
intimate with him too, the infernal scoundrel ! (God for- 
give me for calling any man such a name !) Then you and 
he fell out. But, for some reason or other, the fellow 
seemed to make a good deal of me, and I suppose I was 
flattered, and so stood by him. 

“ Your Boggle affair came to a head at the same time, 
I suppose ; and, when Tufton left Cambridge, he tallied to 
me about you, and at last made me promise to do any 
thing that I could to injure you. I was a fool and a vil- 
lain, I own, Tom, and I beg your pardon for what I did ; 
but I promised him and swore to him (we were together 
in town at the time) that I would do what I could. And 
he told me all his plans, — how he was going to leave 
Cambridge the first rainy day, have his friend Crosby go 
off to New York with that Boggle girl (well, you know 
what she is) , and he himself wait about in town a week 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


339 


j>r more for some money that old Boggle owed him. Can 
you forgive me for knowing all about your affairs in this 
way, Hammersmith, and making such a dirty promise to 
injure j’ou? ” 

“Certainly, I can, Lad! Here’s my hand on it! I 
know, to my cost, how insidious that old Tufton was, my 
dear fellow ! I’ve some news of him himself that I’L 
tell you when you are through, — from Penhallow, my old 
chum.” 

“Well, then that Bradstreet scrape came on, and the 
faculty order threatening to decimate the class if the per- 
petrators did not come forward. It was a miserably thin 
trick, I own, Hammersmith ; but I said to myself, Here’s 
my chance ! and rushed in to tell Tufton, who got up that 
note to the faculty, saying that you and Goldie were at 
the bottom of the affair : you’ve seen it, of course ? Yes ; 
and, to make it seem as if it came from somebody out 
here, I, fool that I was ! brought the note out with me, and 
dropped it in the mail Sunday evening, when there was 
nobody in the post-office. And — Tom, I felt like a thief, 
or a murderer, or anybody else that’s low and mean ; but 
I had promised to do it, and so I mailed it, and felt that 
everybody I met on the way to my rooms must see by 
my face that I had been doing a dirty trick. Can you 
forgive me, Tom? Thank Heaven that 3 r our friends, some 
of them, were successful in saving you, at any rate ! ” 

“ Come, come, don’t get excited! We’ll have a jolly 
old laugh some day over the whole thing, and break a 
bottle of champagne on it yet,” said Hammersmith ; and 
lie seized one of Ladbroke’s hot, wasted hands in both his 
own brown hands, and added, “ Of course I forgive you, 
old boy! You’ll get well, and have a great time at 
Worcester; and next year you will be such a swell in 
Cambridge, that ” — 

“Aren’t you talking too long, Harry dear? — Excusa 


340 


HAMMEESMITH : 


me, Mr. Hammersmith,” said Ladbroke’s mother, putting 
her head in at the door. 

“ No, mother ; but we’re just about through now. I do 
feel a little tired, though. — Are you going? ” 

“ I’d better go, I think,” said Tom. ■“ I’ll be around 
here in the morning again ; and I know I shall find 3’ou 
immensely better, and already calling out for your boxing- 
gloves, or perhaps even for your seat in the boat, — who 
knows? ” 

“ Oh ! by the way, Tom, I want to leave — I want to 
give you something. I haven’t much up here to give you ; 
but I wish, I really wish, that you would let me make you 
a present of my boxing-gloves. They’re a ver} r fair set, a 
particularly good set old Molineaux says ; and I’m sure 
I shall not be — I’m sure I’m never going to use them 
again ’' (Mrs. Ladbroke was looking down anxiously and 
inquirb gly at him). — “I’m such a great boating-man 
now, 3 *u know, mother, that I shall never have time to 
box ai y more, I mean. — You’ll take them, Tom? ” 

“ IS ot a bit of it, not a bit of it ! ” said Hammersmith. 
“ Wb it, put my unskilful fists into the gloves that 3’ou 
have made famous, my dear fellow ! Can’t think of it, 
Lad . I should be afraid of disgracing them.” 

“ Ah, Tom, but 3 t ou will ! ” But Tom would not, though 
he continued to banter and chaff the invalid in a pleasant 
way about his famous gloves ; and at last, catching up his 
thin hands in his own, he said to him, “ Well, old fellow, 
I’ll, see you in the morning, and we’ll have another bout 
with the gloves, eh? ” and went out suddenly, waving his 
hand to him in a cheerful wa,y as he opened the door, and 
bowed to Mrs. Ladbroke. 


Two nights later Ladbroke died. All the awe and 
mystery which wait on death came to impress with sudden 
power the 3 r oung and cheerful circles where Ladbroke haa 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


341 


bo recently moved, as fresh, as sturdy, as full of vitality, 
as any. It was the first time that pale thoughts of death 
had entered the class of Hammersmith ; the first time that 
one had gone out from their number never to return alive. 
At the class-meeting which was held the next day in the 
“ Institute ” rooms, where the usual resolutions of respect 
and condolence were passed, the hushed silence, the 
young men sitting and moving as with a sense of some 
awful surrounding power whose presence they had never 
fully realized till now, every thing, testified to the sudden 
emphasis with which the mystery of life and death had 
been brought home to them. 

A deeper meaning, an unexplained tenderness of grace, 
seemed to fill all the old familiar scenes where Ladbroke 
had lived and moved, rejoicing in his strength. The very 
elms appeared to rustle above them in more solemn whis- 
pers. Could it be the same quadrangle as before, the 
same sunny society, the same groups of confident youth 
appearing to defy dissolution ? Men spoke in low tones of 
poor Ladbroke : it was so sudden, so unexpected ! they 
could not believe it. Only yesterday, as it were, hearty, 
active, stronger limbed than almost any of his mates ; to- 
day, dead, the life gone out of his glorious muscles, his 
classmates asking themselves whither had fled the inform- 
ing spirit which yesterday made a man, to-day leaves him 
clay. What sage, what philosophy, what preacher, can 
entirely answer them ? 

At the services* held in the chapel the following day, Dr. 
Biimblecom made no labored attempt, no learned treat- 
ment of the awful mystery of life and death, no threaten- 
ing deductions from the present event which had come to 
startle them with its suddenness. His sermon was simple, 
impressive, homely. What were we to learn from the 
lesson of youthful health and strength and confidence 
snatched away in the fulness of its power ? What was 


342 


HAMMERSMITH : 


the reason of the wider vision, the greater longing, the 
deeper purpose, which the preacher felt sure had come to 
each one among his young hearers under the influence of 
this removal of their classmate by the hand of God? We 
were to learn that at all times, everywhere, we were to be 
prepared for his quick summons ; that the young man only 
just polishing his shield, and hardening his muscles for 
the battle of life which awaits us all ; those in the thick 
of the fray, dealing stout blows for the causes which they 
hold just ; the aged, weighty with wisdom and experience, 
or bending with infirmities ; the merry schoolgirl, the anx- 
ious mother, the innocent child, — all were liable at any 
moment to hear the mildly stern voice of God, and to be 
called away from their earthly careers. Yes ; and the idle 
reveller, the scoffer, the fool who would see no nobler end 
in life than personal gratification and luxurious idleness, 
the false at heart, the mean in spirit, — sooner or later 
they must be confronted, as were the preacher’s hearers 
to-day, with the great questions, How have I labored with 
the powers which I have had given me ? Have I done all 
that I could to make my own life pure, simple, aspiring, 
effective ? Have I done what I could to make the life of 
those about me more cheerful, more comfortable, happier? 
Why am I here ? For what am I laboring ? Am I labor- 
mg for any thing ? 

Simple, straightforward questions, which the preacher 
proceeded to answer for his hearers, arousing all that was 
manly in them by the warm sympathy of his manner and 
the plain directness of his language, showing them that 
life was merely lent to us, not given ; that the earth was 
a battle-ground, where only cowards refused to take their 
part, and only weaklings cried out that there was no bat- 
tle; and that the young men within his hearing were 
doing their duty, and worthily preparing themselves for th* 
greater struggles awaiting them in the world, if they were 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


343 


doing their work squarely, living purely, giving a hand to 
their brothers who needed it, fearing God, and leaving the 
result to him. 

And, approaching the event of Ladbroke’s accident ano 
death more nearly, he went on to say, that much as he 
had thought, and read, and discussed the matter, on one 
side and the other, he could not bring himself to believe 
that the sports which flourished among them, through one 
of which Ladbroke had met his death, were harmful, if 
properly conducted. On the contrary, he believed that 
what the world needed as much as any thing else was a 
stalwart manhood, a strong-limbed Christianity, which 
could make its way against turbulent opposition, and 
which early muscular training was calculated particularly 
to foster, if it were only regarded as a means, a divine 
means, not an end. In conclusion, he begged the young 
men, with all the authority of his sacred office, to heed 
his words, to go on to make their sports and exercises all 
serve the end of a sturdy, God-fearing life, and not allow 
them to lapse into excesses, and mere animal pastime. 
And he urged that Ladbroke’s death would have taught 
its lesson, and served the purpose of the Most High, if it 
should make his young hearers more thoughtful, more 
careful of life, more strenuously earnest. 

Not a young man present but felt that he was better for 
. e dear doctor’s sermon, and made bravest of resolutions 
to stand by the good words of the preacher, who had 
spoken to them as a father, and seemed to know so well 
what their young thoughts and trials were, and to sympa- 
thize with them so keenly. 

A sweet anthem was sung by the Glee Club in the organ- 
loft ; a benediction full of tenderness was pronounced by 
the beloved preacher ; and many a man went out from the 
chapel that day, filled, as he never had been before, with 
\ sense of the beauty of correct living, and the manliness 
of stout endeavor. 


844 


HAMMERSMITH: 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE GREAT QUINSIGAMOND RACE. 

" Put your hand upon the oar,” says Charon, in the old play to Baccau*, 
M anl you shall hear the sweetest songs.” — Higgin&on. 

“ ‘ But what good came of it at last? ’ 

Quoth little Peterkin. 

‘ Why, that I cannot tell,’ said he ; 

* But ’twas a famous victory.’ ” — Southey. 

J OY, joy unbounded, in the rooms of Goldie, where a 
meeting of the Harvard Boat Club was in progress. 
Before that meeting, called to devise ways and means 
of replacing the three-hundred dollar shell destroyed m 
the late accident on the river, Goldie the glorious. 
Goldie the never-despondent, Goldie, the mighty oars- 
man, produced a letter, and it ran as follows : — 

Boston, June 2, 186 -. 

To Mr. George Goldie, 

President Harvard University Boat Club. 

Dear Sir , — Word has reached me that the shell of the ’Var- 
sity was rendered unfit for use by the unhappy accident on the 
river several weeks since. Knowing as I do, from some slight ex- 
perience in boating matters at Cambridge in the small days of the 
sport, that the subscription-list is by no means a popular or re- 
markably successful document among undergraduates, I desire to 
say that a number of gentlemen, mostly alumni of the university, 
take this means of offering to the Harvard Boat Club a shell of 
such pattern and equipment as shall be decided upon, and from 
whatever maker may be desired. 

Trusting that the sad loss of Mr. Ladbroke may not be irrepara- 
ble, and that, if the club shall decide to accept this offer of a boat, 
[ may have word to that effect as soon as is convenient, 

I am, my dear sir, very respectfully yours, 

Gayton Hammersmith, 

For a number of friends of the University 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


345 


A second letter laid before the meeting, which had been 
received two days before from Yale, read as follows : — 

New Haven, May 29, 18 3-. 

Robert McGregor, Esq., 

Secretary Harvard University Boat Club. 

Sir , — At a meeting of the Yale Navy held this day, it was 
unanimously resolved, that the sympathy of the navy and the 
college be extended to the Harvard University Boat Club for the 
loss of Mr. Ladbroke of the university crew, and an expression 
given to the hope that it may not result in the abandonment of 
the race at Worcester in July. If any accommodation in the mat- 
ter of time or boats is desired, I am instructed to state that the 
Yale navy places its fleet of boats at your disposal, and will agree 
to any change in the date of the university race that may be found 
convenient for both crews. 

Renewing the expressions of condolence for the loss of so valu- 
able a member of your crew, and requesting to be informed at 
as early a day as possible if any change or accommodation is de- 
sired, as stated above, I am, with much personal regard, 

Your obedient servant, 

F. P. Terry, 
Secretary Yale Navy . 

No wonder that there was vast joy on the reading of 
the first of the two letters, and that the motion was im- 
mediately put, and carried viva voce. No difficult}^ evi- 
dently, in replying to the friendly offer of the “Duke” 
and his Mends. 

But what should be said to Yale? And what possible 
prospect was there of replacing Ladbroke ? A crowd of 
\ dozen or more men, bound together by a loose organi- 
sation called the Harvard University Boat Club, was 
gathered in Goldie’s rooms at this suddenly-called meet- 
ing, debating these two immensely important questions. 
A boat was ready to their hands so soon as the builder 
could put it together ; and McKay was noted for his de- 
spatch in turning out work for the university. Five men, 
as splendidly trained as ever men were trained so long 


846 


HAMMERSMITH : 


before a race, were ready to step into it and take theii 
seats, the moment it arrived in Cambridge waters. But 
who could be found to take up that mighty oar at No. 3, 
and fill at all worthily the place of poor Ladbroke, whose 
superb strength and ever-improving form of rowing had 
given the crew such power and the whole university such 
hope ? 

What answer, then, was made to the polite note of 
Yale, and who it was that took up that oar at No. 3, to 
the delight of the crew, the university, and Harvard men 
generalty, may be inferred from later developments, which 
we are permitted to witness, together with whomsoever is 
interested in athletic rivalry and the success of the old 
’Varsity. 


Red, red, red, blue, blue, blue. 

Red at the throat of beautiful girls, blue in the hats of 
beautiful girls. Red on dainty parasols, blue on the whips 
of Jehus. Red on the heads of horses, blue on the canes 
of dapper young students. Red and blue, the colors of 
Harvard, the colors of Yale, everywhere about the shores 
of Quinsigamond, a pretty wooded lake in the neighbor- 
hood of Worcester. 

All the ruddy pigment of flaming sunsets, all the blue 
ether of mid-summer heavens, seemed to have been bor- 
rowed for this gala-day by the merry young people on the 
borders of the lake, and to be adding a flowery fringe to the 
woodland, in whose afternoon shadows they were waiting 
for the great Harvard- Yale race of the year. If the sun, 
looking down, mistook all this radiance for a sudden 
efflorescence under its July warmth, and wondered at the 
gay petals blown here and there along the banks, he was 
not far from right. For it was a great red rose from the 
Cambridge hot-houses that had burst upon the still town 
and quiet rural pond that afternoon ; and the abundant 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


347 


blue, that outshone the blue of the waters, was an exotic* 
growth from the direction of tne tropics, where it flourishes 
vigorously on the borders of the sea, and whence it yearly 
comes to match its colors with those of its bright-ribboned 
sister of the north. 

To a group of students chatting with the Darbys, Mis* 
Ha mm ersmith, and Miss Fayerweather in their landau, 
come Breese and Pinckney, walking rapidly up from the 
direction of the boat-houses. 

“How are they? how are they?” asks Freemantle, 
from the box. 

“ All right,” answers Pinckney. 44 Loring was a bit 
under the weather yesterday; but he’s feeling tip-top 
now. Oh, they’re in beautiful condition ! ” 

44 Mr. Pinckney, how is my cousin? ” asks Miss Darby. 

44 Goldie ! Did you ever know him when he wasn’t in 
training to row a race ! He’s as fine as silk ! ” said 
Pinckney. 

4 4 I’m very glad,” she began — but Breese was saying 
to Miss Hammersmith, on the other side of the carriage, 
44 Oh, your brother is in magnificent form, Miss Hammer- 
smith ! He’ll do his share of the work to-day, you may 
depend.” And Miss Darby turned towards him to hear 
what he said. Her eyes brightened with pleasure as she 
heard his words, and as Breese went on praising Mr. Tom 
and the rest. How was Breese to know if their bright- 
ness meant pleasure that he was there talking to her, or 
pleasure that the news he brought was good news of Ham- 
mersmith ? 

44 You’re sure Tom is well and strong, Mr. Breese? ” 
asked Miss Hammersmith, looking earnestly at him. 

44 1 assure you yes,” he answered. 44 1 never saw a 
man in better form in my life, ’pon my word ! You’ll 
see, you’ll see.” And Buddiman approached, and made 
his bow, bedaubed with red from head to foot, and 


848 


HAMMERSMITH : 


chaperoning a small dog, copiously provided with the 
same color. 

“ Miss Mabel, what do you think of it? ” he asked. 

“ Of what, Mr. Ruddiman? ” she returned. “The 
dog?” 

“ Oh, no ! But he’s a beauty, isn’t he? — Here, Spot ! 
Down, I say ! — What do you think of the lake, and 
every thing? ” 

“It’s very pretty, very pretty indeed! But I’m so 
anxious for the race to begin ! And I’m so afraid Tom 
will work too hard ! ” 

“ Oh, nonsense! He’ll take care of himself. By the 
way, — I came near forgetting it, — here’s something he 
sent up to you. I’ve just seen him at the boat-house.” 
And holding on to his six-inch dog with one hand, with 
the other he fished into a side-pocket, and brought up a 
couple of little wild rose-buds, sadly withered, and some- 
what odorous of Ruddiman tobacco. 

“ For me?” asked Miss Mabel. 

“ I suppose so,” he said. “ Tom didn’t say. Oh, yes ! 
he said, 4 Take these up to show ’em I’m still alive.’ — 
Down with you, you beggar you ! Stop your snuzzling ! ” 

Miss Mabel took the buds, and handed one to Miss 
Darby, who was arranging it at her throat when Breese 
turned from talking with Professor Darby, and saw the 
little adornment : the merest shade passed over his face, 
for he knew the famous wild rose-bush by the boat-house , 
which the crew tended so carefully. But every thing 
else was forgotten when Freemantle suddenly shouted, 
“Here she is! Here’s Yale!” as a blue- topped crew 
came swinging under the bridge, and shot past the crowds 
on shore, spurting a bit, to warm themselves up. 

“ Oh, isn’t it beautiful ! ” said Miss Hammersmith. 
u How perfectly they row ! ” 

“You just wait!” said Ruddiman. “You’ll see 
lomething finer than that vet ! ” 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


349 


“ By the way, Mr. Ruddiman, what a traitor you must 
feel like to-day, to be talking against your old college ! ’* 
said Miss Hammersmith, “and wearing your new love's 
colors ! ” 

“ Wearing what? Oh, yes, exactly! ” he said, blush- 
ing a shade more, if discrimination were possible, and 
withdrawing his eyes from a neighboring carnage in 
which were Miss Summerdale and Miss Pinckney, with 
Mrs. Summerdale and her sister from Worcester. “ Ah ! 
4 red is the color of life/ you know,” he added. 

“And blue is for hope, is it not? ” she asked. 

“ Yes. But hope without life isn’t good for much ; is 
it, Miss Mabel? ” 

“Is life without hope- any better?” she asked, glan- 
cing, as if casually, towards the carriage of Miss Pinckney. 
She was a quick-witted young woman, this Miss Mabel, 
if this was her first introduction to college-scenes, or col- 
lege-men rather ; and she had not needed Miss Darby’s 
information to be aware that the heir of all the Ruddi- 
mans had a vulnerable spot in his armor, which the 
utmost ingenuity of the lad could not conceal. Nay, I 
doubt not he had a secret pleasure in letting all the world 
see the havoc that a certain young Southern beauty was 
already making with his coy affections, and felt that it 
was a noble spectacle, — the sight of Ruddiman wasting 
away in the fires of a grand passion. 

“ Well, life and hope each seem to need the other 
t retty badly, Miss Mabel,” he said. “Halloo, there’s 
Harvard! Now you’ll see some rowing, Miss Mabel! 
Hooray ! ” 

“ ’Rah, ’rah, ’rah ! ” came from a multitude of throats, 
as the old ’Varsity, pulling leisurely, with beautiful rhythm 
of stroke, glided out from under the causeway, and took a 
Uim, as Yale had done, up the lake. 

Goldie heard the well-known cry, and quickened his 


350 


HAMMERSMITH : 


stroke a trifle ; the six bodies rose and fell as regularly as 
a trip-hammer ; the six crimson-covered heads went for- 
ward and backward in perfect time, with absolutely equa* 
sweep. 

“ Isn’t it wonderful? ” said Miss Darby. 

“I never saw any thing like it!” exclaimed Miss 
Mabel. “ It’s like a machine! — Which is Tom, Mr. 
Ruddiman?” But she turned to find Ruddiman gone, 
fled to the Summerdales’ carriage ; and Breese answered 
her question. 

“That is your brother, three from the rear, — Goldie, 
Boring, your brother.” 

“ Good old Tom ! ” she said, riveting her eyes on the 
crew, and scarcely breathing as she watched the perfect 
motion with which they sped over the lake. 

Two guns, — boom ! over the lake ; signal for the boats 
to come into line. 

Yale and Harvard paddle slowly down to the judges’ 
boat, and draw for place. They move off to their posi- 
tions ; and the rudder of each boat is held in line by a 
friend in a skiff. 

“By Jove! Yale has the inside!” said Freemantle, 
surveying the boats from the box of the landau. 

“What do you mean by that, Mr. Freemantle? ” asked 
Miss Hammersmith. 

“ It’s a mile and a half up to the turning-stake, a 
mile and a half down, of course. They turn from right 
to left around the stake ; and the boat on the inside, you 
can see, has the greatest advantage, that is, if the boats 
are abreast all the way. If the boat on the outside can 
put clear water between its stern and the bows of the 
inside crew, they are allowed to draw ahead, and turn 
first, besides giving the rear crew its wash, and otherwise 
impeding it.” 

“ But can Harvard put — what do you call it? — deal 
water between itself and Yale? ” asked Miss Darbv. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


351 


“ Trust Goldie for that ! ” said Freemantle. 1 1 A Har- 
vard crew’s strong forte is a quick start, and a spurt for a 
little distance, till it is clear of the other boat. If noth- 
ing happens, Goldie will be in the lead almost before they 
pass us here : see if I am not correct ! But there they 
are: they’re off! ” 

The report of a pistol, a quick flashing of oars by the 
two boats, just a little spray thrown into the air, and the 
great race is begun. 

The crowd grows quiet ; the young ladies stand up in 
their carriage, and look eager-eyed at the straining crews ; 
and suddenly Harvard men break into prolonged cheer- 
ing, as Freemantle’ s prediction seems being fulfilled, and 
the old ’Varsity, fairly leaping through the water under 
the powerful stroke of its six young oarsmen, creeps up, 
up, and is almost clear of Yale as they pass Regatta 
Point. 

“’Rah, ’rah, ’rah!” “Oh, well rowed, Goldie!” 
“Well rowed, three!” “Clear water already, by 
Jove!” “Yes, but look at Yale!” “It’s nobody’s 
race yet, I tell you! ” “What a magnificent spurt of 
Harvard’s!” and a thousand other cries are raised as 
the crews fly past. 

A crowd of men on foot, yelling, cheering, waving 
hats, shouting vainly to the crews, dash by the carriages, 
following the boats from the start, and skirting the lake 
for a distance, till the nature of the shores prevents prog- 
ress. The Darbys’ horses plunge, the young ladies give 
pretty little screams of fright, and Freemantle an- 
nounces, — 

“ Yes, by Jove, Yale is picking up most tremendously ! 
WiL you look through my glass, Miss Hammersmith? ” 

“ Thanks ! Oh, she is, she is! Do you think Yale 
frill beat, Mr. Freemantle?” 

“ Hard to say,” answered Freemantle. “ They’ve the 


352 


HAMMERSMITH: 


finest crew that they’ve turned out for years ; but so have 
we, — thanks to Goldie and your brother, — and I think 
it will be a mighty close race.” 

And a mighty close race it seemed to the excited groups 
looking on from shore, from boats along the banks, from 
the little steamer which punted and screeched along in 
their wake. Yale was most emphatically crawling up, 
slowly but surely. Was Goldie allowing it, merely to 
shake her off again, and spurt once more for the lead 
before reaching the turning-stake? Or was his crew 
already exhausted by the powerful work at the quick 
start, and already out-rowed by Yale? 

We may trust Goldie, as Freemantle had said. He 
has not set his grand stroke for this crew for months now, 
and tried every exhausting trick cf quick start, repeated 
spurt, long, many-miled pull, and final burst of speed, all 
to no purpose. He will pull a glorious race to-day ; and, 
if he is beaten, he will be fairly and squarely beaten by a 
superior crew. It will be a crew with a head to it, too, 
that will beat him ; for Goldie’s work is as much of the 
head as of the muscles, and you may be pretty sure that 
he has gauged the capacities of Yale, as well as his own 
crew, long before this, and knows perfectly what he is 
about when Yale seems to be out-rowing him, and fighting 
for the lead. 

But the crowds on shore are in a fearful excitement : 
the betting fraternity rush about wildly to u hedge ” their 
bets ; Yale stock is perceptibly advancing ; and a buzz of 
wonder, inquiry , excited talking, runs through the mass 
of people straining their eyes up the still lake. 

Meanwhile the crews are thrashing the water far up on 
their course, spurting alternately for the lead. The sur- 
face of the water is as quiet as a mill-pond. Nature 
6eeni3 holding her breath, like the interested young women 
on shore, and looking on in anxious suspense at the two 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


853 


crews of her young heroes, striving in friendly rivahy. 
And surely the light ripples seen on the upper borders of 
the lake are but tne result of the quick breathing of water- 
nymphs and startled deities of the woody neighborhood, 
peering out from leafy retreats upon the manly young 
invaders. 

Five minutes, eight minutes, ten minutes, pass, — short 
enough periods to careless spectators, if any such there 
are, but amply long for the tense oarsmen, bending to 
their work like the athletes that they are, putting in prac- 
tice all the skill and muscle, and dogged plucky persever- 
ance, that they can command. Only McGregor glances 
now and then out of the boat to mark their course, and 
note the progress of Yale : the rest, with clinched teeth, 
and eyes glued to the backs of the men in front of them, 
give all their care to the strength and unison of their 
stroke, which Goldie the glorious, most perfect of oars • 
men, is setting them. 

Ten minutes, twelve minutes, pass. The crews have 
been many minutes out of sight, a wooded point cutting off 
the upper end of the course from view, and increasing the 
anxiety and wonder of the crowds below. Field-glasses 
are levelled at the woody headland, the band stops pla} r - 
ing its bucolic misery, and at last a shout is raised, — 

“ Yale, Yale ! ” “ No, Harvard, Harvard, Harvard ! ” 

as a boat appears far out in the middle of the lake, pull- 
ing powerfully on the return. 

“ What is the color of their handkerchiefs? ” 

“ Crimson, crimson ! ” 

“ No, blue, blue ! Yale, Yale, Yale ! ” and the Yale 
crowd grows frantic with excitement. 

“ Is it blue?” asked Miss Hammersmith. “ Is it 
blue, Mr. Freemantie? Please tell me quick ! ” 

“It looks very much like it,” he answered. “But 1 
<an’t see very well, — the reflection, or something. Will 
you take the glass? ” 


354 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“ It is blue, it is blue, Ellen,” she said mournfully, 
putting down the glass. “ Whj T did I ever come here? 
And where is Harvard? Poor Tom! — Can any thing 
have happened, Mr. Breese? O Mr. Breese! can the} 
have been upset? ” 

Breese shook his head dejectedly. “ I don’t know,” 
said he. “ Something has surely occurred.” The young 
ladies looked, oh, so pretty and interested as they stood 
gazing up the lake, breathing quickly ! Buddiman sung 
out to Freemantle, “ I say, Free, will you take my dog up 
there ? I’m afraid he’ll get stepped on.” To which Free- 
mantle returned answer, “ Go ’long with your pup ! Take 
care of your own live-stock, can’t you? ” And Harvard 
men generally were a good deal of Freemantle’s petulant 
frame of mind, when the very air seemed to split with a 
tremendous shout from five hundred throats, — 

“ Harvard, Harvard, Harvard! There she is! Har- 
vard!” as the ’Varsity suddenly appeared hugging the 
very shores of the headland, and so concealed, until now, 
from the sight of the crowds below. Yale was in the 
centre of the lake, pulling beautifully. 

“ She’s ahead!” 

“ Who’s ahead?” 

“ Harvard ! ” 

“ No, Yale.” 

“Yes — no ! Jove, but it is close ! ” And the two crews, 
almost exactly abreast, and apparently putting every pound 
of weight on their strokes, came gliding and leaping down 
the course, heading for the line, somewhat below Regatta 
Point. 

“I thought Goldie knew what he was up to,” said 
Freemantle. “ ’Rah, ’rah, ’rah! ” 

“It isn’t over yet,” said Breese. ‘-But I thi nk we 
have them.” And the cool philosopher climbed on the 
dox with Freemantle, and looked down upon the strug- 
gling crews now nearing the point. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


355 


“Yale, Yale, Yale ! Yale has them ! Beautifully rowed. 
Yale ! ” was now the shout, as the two boats were nearly 
opposite the point ; and Yale, though a length in the rear, 
her bows lapping the rudder of Harvard, was gradually 
but visibly leaping to the front, and lapping more and 
more the ’Varsity boat. 

Can it be that Harvard’s men are out-rowed and out- 
generaled? Have their repeated spurts, and that tremen- 
dous struggle to turn the stake first (in which they were 
successful) , used up all their magnificent reserve of power ? 
It was cruel ; it hardly seemed possible : but anybodj 7 , 
looking on from the shore, could see that another minute 
of such rapid gaining, and Yale would be in the front, 
crossing the line, the victor. 

But what is this ? 

If an inquisitive water-god had pricked up his sub- 
aqueous ear somewhere near the ever-watchful McGregor, 
in the ’Varsit}^ boat, he would have heard him say quietly 
and slowly, “ Now, George, hit her up ! ” lie would have 
heard Hammersmith pass along the word, “Hit her up, 
George!” And the next instant the old chieftain had 
quickened his stroke three or four to the minute, laying 
his broad back down to the oar, and feeling his fine crew 
answer his effort with increased vim. 

“Ah, well rowed, Goldie!” “Superbly rowed, Lor- 
ing ! ” “ Harvard, Harvard ! ” “ Now for a spurt such 

as you read of!” “Hammersmith, Hammersmith!” 
“ O glorious ! ” were some of the shouts about the young 
ladies, as the ’Varsity picked up the quickened stroke of 
Goldie, and jumped away from Yale almost immediately, 
showing clear water between them. 

“Dear old Tom!” said Miss Mabel, seizing Miss 
Darby’s hand. “How he’s working away! Isn’t he? 
Isn’t he a dear fenow?” And Miss Darby, hardly no< 
t icing the double question, turned and beamed on her 


356 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Breese smiled down from the box. Pinckney, returning 
on a run from the headland with a crowd of excited men. 
passed them, shouting, “ How’s that ! Isn’t that glorious, 
Miss Ellen ? ” Ruddiman extricated his crimson pup from 
a fearful combat with a blue-ribboned terrier fired to ven- 
geance by defeat ; and with a crash of music from the 
band, and a rain of cheers and shouts from the mass of 
their friends, Harvard crossed the line a couple of lengths 
in the lead, after one of the closest races on record. 


Men were still screaming, cheering, hugging each other, 
throwing their hats in the air, when Ruddiman cried out, 
“ Can’t stand this any longer ! Must go and hug some- 
body ! ” and dashed off, with his pup in his arms, to find 
consolation in the embrace of some hilarious classmate 
longing for the same relief to his feelings. 

The young ladies laughed as the little red man rushed 
off. The two crews were shaking hands over the sides 
of their boats, down at the finish ; and presently Harvard 
came rowing slowly and beautifully to the point, carrying 
the champion flags. 

The band has been playing, “ Lo, the conquering hero 
comes!” It stops. Somebody calls out, “ What time, 
fellows? ” — “ Eighteen fifty-three! ” shouts McGregor. 
And a line of six bronze-backed young fellows turn their 
faces shoreward, and grin with delight, — grin like a row 
of Roman soothsayers, — while the air is filled again with 
shouts and cheers and the dear old name of Harvard. 

The great race is over; and yet it is not over. An 
almost severer trial is on hand for the young heroes, when 
they enter the Bay State House in the evening, coming 
up from the boat-houses, and find a surging, boisterous 
crowd of men, from all the colleges within easy reach of 
Worcester, talking, shouting, piophesying already for nexf 
year’s races. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


357 


Goldie is seized, Loring is seized, Hammersmith, 
McGregor, each member of the crew, is seized, and 
mounted on the shoulders of enthusiastic students, who 
parade them up and down the halls, cheering each in turn 
and calling vainly, “ Speech, speech ! ” But nobody will 
speak. McGregor says emphatically, 44 No, I’ll be hanged 
if I’ll make a speech ! What ! pull like a demon in the 
boat, and then come up here to be made to speak a piece ! 
Not if I know myself! ” But he laughed while delivering 
his truculent words. The crowd shouted, “McGregor, 
McGregor! Three cheers for Mac! ” and felt that they 
might well afford to excuse him from speaking, if he 
would always give as good account of himself in the boat 
as to-day, — and when had a McGregor of the line ever 
done otherwise ? 

But presently “Speech, speech! Goldie, Goldie!’* 
was called ; and the old warrior, mounted on the shouldeis 
of Breese, Pinckney, and others, was cheered and invoked, 
and cheered again, till he had to stop bowing and grinning 
at the crowd, and in self-defence attempt to say some- 
thing. 

“ Well, fellows, I don’t know what I can say.” (“ Oh, 
any thing, any thing ! Three cheers for Goldie ! ” ’Rah, 
’rah, ’rah ! ) “I can’t say I thank you for the honor con- 
ferred,” (“Three cheers for the 4 honor conferred ’ ! ” 
’Rah, ’rah, ’rah !) “ because I feel that every man in the 
crew is as much entitled to the credit of to-day’s victor}' 
as I.” (“ Three cheers for 4 to-day’s victory,’ fellows ! 

Now ! ” ’Rah, rah, ’rah !) 44 But I can say one thing, fel- 

lows, and that is this,” (“Three cheers for 4 one thing’ ! ” 
’Rah, ’rah, ’rah!) “that, after the loss of Ladbroke two 
months ago, there was only one man in all the college that 
could fill his place, and help us win the victory that we’ve 
won to-day ; and you know who that is as well as I do.” 
v ’Rah, ’rah, ’rah! “Now, fellows, three times three fox 


358 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Hammersmith ! ” ’Rah, ’rah, ’rah! ’Rah. ’rah, ’rahl 
’Rah, ’rah, rah ! “ And three cheers for his uncle ! ” ’Rah, 
’rah, rah ! ) “ And I know that every man in the crew feels 

the same about it that I do,” (“ Three cheers for ‘ everj 
man in Ihe crew ’ ! ” ’Rah, ’rah, ’rah !) “ or I should not 
dare to speak of it. Now you’ve done a lot of cheering,” 
(“Three cheers for ‘ a lot of cheering’!” ’Rah, ’rah, 
'rah !) “ and I want to propose a cheer. It’s a great thing, 
fellows, to have a good square race, isn’t it? ” (“ Yes, 

yes ! ” ’Rah, ’rah, ’rah !) “And we’ve had a good square 
race, and we haven’t a single word to say against Yale ; I 
hope Yale hasn’t a word to say against us.” (“Three 
cheers ” — ) “ Hold on ! ” said Goldie. “ I say, I hope 
they haven’t a word to say against us. Every man in their 
crew has behaved like a gentleman towards us, from the 
first day that we met on the lake ; and I believe every 
man in their crew believes that they were fairly and 
squarely out-rowed to-day, and is ready to acknowledge it, 
as I’m sure we should have been ready to do, if we had 
been beaten.” (“Three cheers for” — ) “Hold on, I 
say ! It’s a good thing to have a fair and square race, — 
no fouls, no tampering with boats, no hard feeling on either 
side. We’ve had such a race this year, I think I can say ; 
and I want all you fellows that are coming up to take our 
places to remember what I say, and see to it that you 
have just such downright, straightforward, out-and-out 
honest races as we’ve had to-day. Everybody feels better 
after it ; and the University need not feel ashamed of us, 
and try to put a stop to boating among us, if we only 
behave as we ought, and conduct every thing on the 
square. 

“Now, fellows, I’ve made a long speech for me” (“No, 
no! Go on, go on!”) “but I can’t help thinking a 
good deal on the subject, because I believe in these things 
most emphatically. I want to see boating, and every thing 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


359 


else that’s manly, flourishing among us ; and I think it’s 
a downright shame to let it be broken up or degenerate, 
because two crews cannot meet and have a perfectly fair 
trial of strength and skill, as we’ve had to-day. Now, 
we couldn’t have had this kind of a race, if Yale had not 
met us half way, and treated us exacts* as well as we 
treated them. So what I want to propose is three times 
three for Yale, — her crew and her men generally. Let 
them be regular top-lifters ! ” And the old stroke waved 
his hat ; and I query if ever the broad corridors and halls 
of the Bay State House had listened to such hearty, rever- 
berating cheers as the whole concourse — Harvard, Yale, 
Williams, Amherst, Brown — gave in response to Goldie’s 
call. 

The Yale stroke was called on for a speech, which he 
gave most gracefully, after the manner of Yale men, 
among whom off-hand speaking receives more attention 
than it used to receive in Cambridge in Hammersmith’s 
day, and returned the compliment of Goldie by leading 
off in an answering chorus of cheers for Harvard. 

Then another attempt was made at Harvard oratory; 
and Hammersmith, blushing profusety, was hoisted aloft, 
and the halls rang again with cheers ; for the handsome 
young fellow with the brown eyes and the broad shoul- 
ders, that had done such execution to-day, did not need 
Goldie’s praise to arouse the ample enthusiasm with which 
he was received. Why he had not rowed the year before, 
when Harvard was so unhappily beaten ; how he had for- 
sworn rowing most persistently, and given in only when 
Ladbroke had died, and Goldie’s personal intercession 
had been added to his own growing conviction that he 
was called on to make good Ladbroke ’s place, after the 
peculiar relation of Ladbroke and himself to the ’Varsity 
crew in these two different years, — all this was known 
co Yale almost as well as to Harvard men. When the 


860 


HAMMERSMITH : 


stalwart young fellow was lifted up, therefore, and both 
colleges looked on the man who had had so peculiar a his- 
tory, and had done such sturdy work in the boat to-day, 
no wonder there were excitement and enthusiasm. 

lie was not expected to say much, and he did not dis- 
appoint the expectation : — 

44 Thank you very much, fellows, for your cheers ; but 
I can’t take any great credit to myself for the day’s 
victory.” (“ Oh, yes, you can ! Three cheers for Ham- 
mersmith!” ’Rah, ’rah, ’rah!) 14 You see, I had to 
make up for last year, and ” — ( 44 You’ve done it, you’ve 
done it! ” ’Rah, ’rah, ’rah!) 44 and so I confess I put 
every pound of muscle I had on my oar to-day,” ( 44 Three 
cheers for his 4 oar to-day,’ fellows ! ” ’Rah, ’rah, ’rah !) 
44 and I intend to be on hand in future, whenever I’m 
wanted.” (“ We’ll always want you, shall we not, fel- 
lows?” ’Rah, ’rah, ’rah!) 44 Now, I don’t know that 
I’ve any thing more to say. — Put me down, won’t you, 
Breese?” (“No, no! Give us a sentiment, give us a 
sentiment ! ”) 44 A sentiment? I don’t know any senti* 

ment ! Well, I think we’ve cheered about every thing 
to-night, fellows ; but there’s one thing that we have not 
cheered.” ( 44 0ut with it, out with it! Give us a 
rouser.”) 44 1 propose three times three for Boating, 
fellows, — Boating with a big B, — and for everybody 
that is fond of pulling an oar.” And great manly cheers 
were given for the favorite sport of the day, — cheers 
which filled the house with echoes from cellar to attic, 
and went whirling out of doors and windows into the 
night air, till they must have reached the God of Boating 
himself, resting on his oars in the neighboring lake ; and 
I wonder that he did not come up with all his rosy-muscled 
crew to return thanks in person for the young fellow’s 
sentiment. 

Hammersmith, then, was put down, and Loring anc ! 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


3G1 


others were swung up, and made to say a word, whether 
they would or not. The cheers, the merriment, the bois- 
terous noise, were kept up till everybody was tired, and 
everybody had exhibited his exceeding joy over the day’s 
victory. 

Gradually the crowd melted away. A few hilarious 
notes were still heard issuing from upper windows of the 
hotel, where convivial celebrations were in progress. 
A few attempts were made to utilize the chandeliers as 
gymnastic apparatus by jolly acrobats fond of swinging. 
A few hastily-organized companies of infantry paraded 
the corridors, with monotonous tramp, and strenuous effort 
at melodious music. But the speeches, the toasts, the 
celebration proper, were over ; and most of the men, with 
hoarse voices, and faces red from cheering, left the hotel, 
and appeared later at the grand ball given by the citizens 
of Worcester in honor of the sports. 

If Miss Mabel had been excited by the race and her 
dear Tom’s achievements on the lake, she was dazzled by 
the ball in the evening. The merry dances, the champion 
flags set up on the stage, the music, the fair women and 
fairer girls ; the bevy of young squires hovering about her, 
attracted by the star-like radiance of her beauty, and a 
certain girlish frankness such as might be expected in a 
Hammersmith maiden ; yes, even the blithe Ituddiman, 
released now from canine care, but still flamboyant with 
his “new love’s colors;” and the severe Breese, taking 
another lesson in microscopic analysis, — all went to make 
up a pageant quite bewildering to the young girl from the 
banks of the Hudson. 

But when, late in the evening, the two crews entered, 
with a .number of friends, and the hall rang with cheers 
(as the whole town had been ringing for half a day now) , 
and Tom and Goldie came up, and received the congratu- 
lations of the Darby group, blushing e T *er so becomingly 


362 


HAMMERSMITH : 


through their brown cheeks, and looking so immense and 
strong among the pale dancers and non-boating men, Miss 
Mabel’s cup was more than full. 

“Dear Tom, I’m so very, very glad for you! ” she 
said as Tom was shaking hands : he had not seen them 
since the race. 

“ Oh, it’s nothing ! ” answered the 3 r oung hero, smiling. 
How white his teeth looked, in contrast with the deep 
brown of his face and neck ! And what a destructive 
grasp he gave with his great hand, only squeezed into 
gloves this evening with the utmost difficulty ! 

“ Aren’t you almost tired to death, Tom? ” she asked. 

“ Pooh ! ” said Hammersmith. “ Not a bit of it ! — 
Miss Darby, can you allow this beautiful waltz to go un- 
improved ? Will you dance ? ’ ’ 

“With pleasure,” she answered, “if you aren’t too 
great a hero to oondescend to frivolities.” But Ham- 
mersmith exhibited a remarkable condescension. Breese 
looked on, and wished to Heaven that he were a boat- 
ing-man. Puny men envied Mr. Tom his magnificent 
strength ; and Ruddiman the flashy confided to Miss Mabel 
that Tom was a “most confounded lucky dog!” Miss 
Mabel didn’t like the expression in the least, but thought 
him the handsomest and strongest and best of brothers. 

They brought her word, also, of the great demonstra- 
tion in the hotel halls, — the speech that Goldie had made, 
complimentary to Tom ; and how Tom had been lifted 
upon the shoulders of his friends, and had made a speech 
himself, and been cheered and cheered by both colleges. 
Later in the evening Mr. Tom was made to take his place 
in the Glee Club, on the stage (he had been greatly 
missed at their concert the evening before), and was 
cheered again as he stepped on the platform. So that the 
young girl was quite bewildered by it all, — the race, the 
dazzling ball, the ovation to her dear Tom, and the whir* 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


3G3 


of excitement in which he was caught up and carried 
along, while he seemed all the time to keep his head, and 
look about him as though it were the most ordinary matter 
in the world. “What a cool old Tom he is ! ” she thought 
to herself. 

And when it was all over, and Tom and Breese had 
escorted the ladies to their hotel, — - Miss Darby thanking 
Breese for his kindness, with an excess of earnestness 
which was quite feminine, but quite incomprehensible to 
Breese, who was not aware that anjfoody but himself had 
regarded the secondary position in which, as a non-boat- 
ing man, he had been placed during the day and evening, 
— when it was all over, and Tom and Breese had walked off 
together, the young women, you may be sure, sat a long 
while, after the manner of young women, talking it over, 
and crooning, as is their fashion, over this “ bright, bright 
day.” 

“ I never had such a pleasant time,” said Miss Ham- 
mersmith at last. “And I’m so happy that you asked 
me to come with you, Ellen dear. I had no idea that 
Tom was such a great man in his college, though ! Why 
hadn’t you told me ? Ellen, what are you thinking of ? ” 
she asked, as she saw Miss Darby sitting, with her hands 
folded in her usual manner, looking before her into 
vacancy. 

“Oh, nothing!” she answered, rousing herself, and 
giving Miss Hammersmith one of those looks which are 
said to be common with young women, and are believed 
to mean a great deal. “ I was thinking that you must 
promise me you’ll come on to Class Day next year, dear 
Mabel. You will enjoy it so much; and he will — youi 
orother will be so glad to have you ! You shall stay with 
me, and your mother too ; and come as long as possible 
oefore Class Day: it’s so delightful in Cambridge in 
June ! I shall admire to have you.” 


364 


I-IAMMERSMITH : 


“You’re very, very kind, Ellen ; and I shall be only too 
happy to do so if mamma will consent.” 

And so the two young people sat talking far into the 
night, and cementing a friendship which had existed only 
in a spasmodic correspondence since the days of Miss 
Darby’s Fresh Pond accident, and in a few days’ inti- 
macy before the Quinsigamond race. And I envy the 
little rosebud, sadly withered and faded to be sure, 
which Miss Darby took from her hair, and placed in a 
glass on the mantel, whence it looked down upon the two, 
talking themselves to sleep in ever briefer and more lan- 
guid speech, — for it must have been a pretty sight. 


tttr HARVARD DAYS. 


365 


CHAPTER XXII. 


A MOUNT DESERT EPISODE, 


“ Nature will not be stared at.” — Margaret Fuller. 

“ Likewise Glorious Followers, who make themselves as Trumpets, of tho 
Commendation of those they Follow, are full of Inconvenience ; For they taint 
Businesse through want of Secrecie.” — Bacok. 



ID Mr. Gayton Hammersmith ever forgive his coer- 


cive nephew and the too urgent Darbys for luring 
him to spend two mortal weeks at Mount Desert during 
this junior vacation of Mr. Tom’s? — Mr. Gayton, who 
might have been taking his comfort at his club, or been 
made much of by those dear, delightful Minturns at 
Nahant, or been gadding about from one grand country- 
house after another, ever welcome, ever garrulous, and 
ever well fed. And here he was at Mount Desert, which 
then as now, to be sure, was glorious in mountain gorges, 
grand towering precipices, and wave-beaten cliffs, but 
which recalled too closely that Swedish inscription of 
Thoreau’s, “You will find at Trolhate excellent bread, 
meat, and wine — provided you bring them with you.” 
How the old u Duke ” thanked his stars on the day when 
he escaped from the thin banquets of mine host Higgins, 
and came in sight, on the following day, of the yellow 
dome of the State House, and was sure of a good dinner 
4t his club, with Antoine — God bless Antoine ! — to wait 
on him ! 

I know that it is all changed now. I know that cock- 
neyism and civilization have carried their manners and 


366 


HAMMERSMITH: 


customs to the lovely island, into its every nook and co* 
ner ; that huge caravansaries have supplanted the primi 
tive rookeries of the days of Hammersmith the discov- 
erer; and that the abundant Robertses, Rodicks, and 
Higginses have retired on the profits from corner-lots, on 
many of which Mr. Gayton’s nabob friends have erected 
comfortable cottages for their summer life. Ah, what 
serenades and glees we have sung on their broad piazzas 
and in their ample parlors, when the Glee Club was pres- 
ent in force, and the picnic party from Schooner Head 
had returned, and the moon was full ! But tills was some 
years after the mailyrdom of the “ Duke.” I know, too, 
that acres of Harvard men have since that date explored 
every cranny of the wild little island, from South-west 
Harbor to Bar Harbor, — paradise of Higginses, — and 
have tallied breezy nonsense with many a short-kilted 
young creature, rosy as to her cheeks, startling as to her 
trig mountain-dress, on every peak, through every glen, of 
the place. Have I not heard since then, in every drawing- 
room from Boston to San Francisco, these same young 
women raving in a sane, feminine way, over the glories 
of the many-featured island, and the “wonderful combi- 
nation of sea and land attractions ” ? No wonder that a 
clever Bostonian recently concluded that the artesian flow 
of adjectives was about exhausted, and that a fresh word 
should be employed to describe the charms of the place, 
as well as to rebuke extravagant praise of nature by 
bursting youth. “Yes,” said he, “it is neat: Mount 
Desert is very neat.” 

It was essentially a new land, with a primitive popula- 
tion, a primitive mode of life, and a primitive style of 
feast, in the year when the Darbys, the Summerdales, 
“ Duke ” Hammersmith and his nephew, Breese and Rud 
rliman, with a few others, — the Flamingoes and Scurry 9 
of Now York, the Bludsoes from Boston, and severa* 


H»IS HARVARD DAYS. 


367 


blistered youth who rowed thither in wherries, — came to 
molest the ancient solitary reign of the natives, agog with 
wonder at the invasion. 

The “Duke” and Mr. Tom had come and gone, the 
“Duke” thanking his stars, as has been said, at the 
termination of his martyrdom, Mr. Tom not quite so 
eager as he to leave the hearty life of the island ; and the 
name of Mount Desert might not have appeared at all 
at this stage of the chronicle, had it not been for a cer- 
tain excursion, made a day or two after Mr. Tom’s de- 
parture, which indirectly exerted quite a decided influence 
on the young fellow’s subsequent history. 

The Darbys, the Flamingoes, the Summerdales, the 
S currys, gorgeous in petticoat and jaunty hat, and numer- 
ously escorted by the young men of the party, were climb- 
ing and exclaiming, and running pleasant little dangers 
up among the slippery rocks and the shadowing firs of the 
glen, — a fine bit of a steep canon between Green and Dry 
Mountains. Ruddiman was on hand, elaborate in knicker- 
bockers and costly walking-shoes, many colored as to his 
raiment, — a striking chromo-lithograph, as he marched 
ahead boldly, grasping an alpen-stock, and offering super- 
fluous aid to the younger Flamingo, also bright of hue. 
Young Pynetop, from Bangor, and his friend Bricker- 
brack, the elder Albertson, who had just arrived, Breese, 
stoutly shod and soberly dressed for the scramble, and 
Professor Darby, were also there. The latter was in 
charge of a numerous caravan, consisting of Mrs. Darby, 
Mrs. Summerdale, a spinster Scurry of remarkable ambi- 
tion, but very short breath, and pretty Miss Edith Sum- 
meidale, by no means a mighty pedestrian, but fired with 
emulation to keep up with the stronger-footed, and going 
off into merry little screams as she was helped over a 
fallen tree, or had to jump the brook, clamber up a mossy 
rock, or perform other brave deeds on their way up the 


368 


HAMMERSMITH : 


ravine. Miss Darby, in trimmest of blue walking-suits and 
stout shoes, with a simple knot of garnet-colored ribbon 
at her throat, — which shone fair and white, set off by her 
dark blue collar, — and with a sensible, broad-rimmed hat 
of commonest straw, trudged quietly among the foremost, 
helping herself over difficulties by means of a long walk 
ing -stick, and seeming not to need the aid of Breese, who 
yet hovered near, and was ready to offer it when he 
thought fit. 

“ What a chattering lot those Flamingoes and S currys 
are ! ” said Breese, with some spirit, as they were nearing 
the head of the glen. 

“ They are. But I suppose they enjoy themselves in 
their way; and that’s what they came for, I imagine,” 
said Miss Darby, balancing herself, with outstretched 
arms, on a wet log by which she was crossing the stream. 

“ Be careful there, Miss Darby ! — But they seem such 
an incongruous element in a place like this!” added 
Breese. “They might as well come out in their ball- 
dresses to coquet with old dame Nature, for any good 
they’ll get out of a tramp like this ! Look at Miss Fla- 
mingo, la plus jeune! ” 

“ Cliacun a son gout” said Miss Darby, looking back at 
the party some distance below them, and at the Flamingo 
in question, who was receiving a wild flower, captured at 
great risk to his precious neck by the nimble Ruddiman, 
and was going off into a series of extravagant exclama- 
tions, — 

“I never saw any thing half so sweet! I never saw 
any thing so pretty! Look, Sue ! JSPest-ce pas? Merci! 
Mr. Ruddiman, you are too kind ! How very brave you 
are ! ” And Ruddiman the brave, sweeping a magnifi- 
cent salute with his hat (and disclosing sundry suspicious 
green spots in his light-colored trousers, as he climbs 
ahead), mounts a prominent rock, and accomplishes a 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


369 


terrific jodel, — a peculiar war-whoop of his own inven- 
tion, which he has raised several times during the after- 
noon, when his pent-up feelings were likely to smother 
him unless allowed escape. 

44 What a fool that Ruddiman makes of himself! ” ex- 
claimed Breese, as the jodel went echoing up through the 
glen. 

44 How severe you are, Mr. Breese !” answered Miss 
Darby. 

44 But doesn’t he? ” 

44 He is a funny little man most assuredly, — tres dr ole, 
I heard Miss Flamingo call him last evening. But he’s 
a harmless creature ; and I really think he’s quite a pic- 
turesque addition to the landscape.” 

44 So would a red cow be, or a donkey, for that matter,” 
said Breese. 44 1 can’t see what business such people 
have, what right they have, in a place like this.” 

44 But you wouldn’t chain them up at home ! ” 

44 1 would lock everybody like the Flamingoes and the 
S currys, and our young jodeller here, into some place, — 
New York, we will say, — and not let them see a forest, 
or a mountain-peak, till they would promise to look at 
them in a decent way, and to leave their simpering city 
airs behind them.” 

44 But who is to decide what the decent way is, as you 
say? ” asked she. 

44 You or I, or anybody who knows that Nature is not 
meant to be patronized, ’ ’ returned Breese quickly. 4 4 Any- 
body who feels that Nature is a great mystery, to be looked 
upon with awe, in silence.” 

44 Oh, gracious ! ” said Miss Darby. 44 Where do you 
^et such gloomy ideas, Mr. Breese? Shut everybody up 
v n prison till they can promise to sit down, and never 
imile in the face of Nature, or look upon her as any thing 
Lut awful and fearfully mysterious ! That’s worse than 


370 


HAMMERSMITH : 


your 4 Century of Hubbub ’ doctrine. I am afraid you are 
a very sombre man at heart, Mr. Breese.” 

44 No, I’m not; no, I’m not,” answered he almost 
sharply. 44 But tell me truly, doesn’t it grate on you to 
see a crowd like that flirting and chaffing and coquetting 
in such a lovely spot as this? ” 

“ Of course I think that’s all very silly,” she answered. 
“But, if you will excuse me, I think your great mistake 
in looking at the world in general, is in thinking that it’s 
made only for the choice spirits and those with lofty 
ideals of every sort, leaving no room (in your world) for 
us poor creatures who mean well enough, perhaps, but 
don’t exactly know how to set to work.” 

“ Please not class yourself with the 4 poor creatures,’ 
Miss Darby,” he said. 

44 I don’t know why not,” she answered. “I may not 
like 4 that crowd,’ as you call it, or approve of much that 
they seem to enjoy; but I can’t pretend that I have 
fathomed the secrets of Nature, or have any right to lock 
my fellow-creatures up among brick walls till they come 
to my way of thinking, I’m very sure ! ” 

44 Oh ! that’s only my way of putting it,” said Breese. 
And she continued to call him a very severe critic, and he 
objected that he thought he was only looking at the mat- 
ter as any impartial man would view it. But the waning 
sunlight warned them that the}' must make haste to de- 
scend through the glen homeward. 

Ruddiman’s jodel was already sounding the retreat ; 
and that jocund individual was to be seen perched on a 
bowlder, waving his hat to those in the van. Albertson 
and others were ahead of Breese as they were going up. 
Breese passed the word along, and they all began descend- 
ing ; Breese and Miss Darby soon being left quite in the 
rear, as they continued more intent on their wordy wa/ 
than on making haste out of the ravine. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


371 


“ Imagine a party of Greeks of the best era going out 
for an afternoon in a beautiful Attic ravine, with such a 
flock of Flamingoes and Ruddimans in their wake ! ’ ’ said 
Breese, laughing, as they were descending. 

“ There, again, you are thinking of only the select 
spirits, Mr. Breese. Of course, we only hear of the great 
men, the illustrious, among the Greeks, or the Romans, or 
any people. But you cannot mean to say that there were 
not simple, silly, frivolous people, of the Ruddiman type, 
— if I may be so severe, — among the Greeks, as well as 
among us, Mr. Breese? ” 

“ Certainly not,” he answered. “ But which are we 
to follow, — the silly, or the illustrious? Or don’t you 
believe in an ideal of any kind? ” 

“ You are very unkind ! I shall not answer that ques- 
tion ; for you know that I do, if I can only be sure that my 
ideal is correct. Of course we should copy the illustri- 
ous, if possible,” she continued, “but not give the silly 
and the weak over to outer darkness because they are 
silly and weak. I don’t believe you have a particle of 
sympathy in your composition,” she added, forgetting 
herself for a moment, and rather nettled by his severe 
manner of regarding every thing. 

“ I assure you, Miss Darby, you are overstating the 
case,” he was beginning, when Miss Darby suddenly 
slipped from a smooth, moist rock on which she was step- 
ping, and came down in a little heap at its base, with a 
sharp cry of pain. 

“ For Heaven’s sake, Miss Darby ! ” exclaimed Breese, 
'■jumping to her side in an instant. “ Are you hurt? ” 

“ Oh, no ! I think not,” she answered. “ If you will 
get my stick — thanks ! Yes : I can walk all right. But 
Uow silly I was to make a mis-step ! I am a silly Greek 
aon’t you see? ” and she took up her stijk, and continued 
descending carefulty, Breese keeping a sharp eye on her, 
unobserved, and at last saving, — 


372 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“ You are in pain, Miss Darby. Are you sure you arc 
not hurt ? Shall I go for help ? ’ * 

“Oh, no, indeed !” she answered. “I should be 
ashamed of myself to put any one to trouble! But I 
think I’ll sit down here a moment,” and she sat down in 
a patch of sunlight, and winced just a bit when she 
moved one of her feet. Breese looked a moment at the 
fair hgure sitting there, dazzling fair in the sunbeams, and 
then said, — 

“ Hadn’t I better call for somebody? ” 

“No, no ! ” she answered. “ But if you do not mind 
looking to see where they are? ” And he went ahead a 
bit, and had a view down the glen, while she loosened her 
boot, and began to feel better. He reported nobody in 
sight. She was sure that she could walk perfectly well 
now ; and they made their way slowly out of the ravine, 
into the thick wood at its base. 

“ I’m very sorry,” she said, as they emerged into the 
footpath among the trees ; “ but I must sit down again. 
I shall be all right in a minute.” 

“If it is your ankle,” said Breese boldly, “ the shorter 
you stop, the better : it’s always best to keep moving, if 
you can.” 

Present^ she started again, and kept up pluckily, 
darkness coming on apace, and Breese looking a bit 
anxious. Again, however, she was obliged to sit down, 
and again she went on, till Breese saw that they could 
not make much further headway at that rate ; and Miss 
Darby consented that he should call for help. 

He ran quickly to a turn in the path, shouted as vigor- 
vusly as a robust young American can shout; waited a 
moment, no answer ; hallooed again, no sound but the 
light breath of the trees in the air above him ; and he 
came running back. 

“ Too bad ! ” said he. “ Couldn’t raise a reply to sav« 
my life ! How do you feel? ” 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


373 


“ Nicely, thanks ; perhaps I can walk a little more 
now.” But five steps convinced her of her error; and 
Breese, with some alarm, saw her sitting down again on a 
leaf-covered mound. 

“ If you could lean on me,” Breese began. 

“ How far is it to the nearest house? ” she asked. 

“ Over a mile to the mill ; but there’s nobody living 
there now, you know. It must be a mile farther to the 
next house.” 

“ Were the carriages to meet us? ” she asked. 

“No: your father sent them back after the lunch. 
Shall I run to the first inhabited house? ” 

She looked up at the darkening heavens. A rising wind 
swept through the tree-tops ; a night-bird screeched over- 
head ; and she answered, — 

“ No : I shouldn’t like to be left here alone. What a 
bother I am ! ” 

Breese whistled under his breath to himself a moment, 
and struck the ground several times with his walking- 
stick. 

“ Well? ” said he finally. “ Could I ” — 

“ I don’t see,” she began. 

“I might” — he continued. “Miss Darby, I don’t 
see but that I shall have to carry you,” he announced 
decisively. 

“ But I should kill you ! You don’t know how heavy I 
am ! ” she answered ; and she laughed at the dreary per- 
plexity of the situation. The laugh re-assuring Breese, he 
caught her up in his arms, after more expostulation on her 
part, and started to carry her down the woody pathway, 
— a novel role surely, for a man who had been accused 
of having not a particle of sympathy in his composition ; 
who had so little a while ago been forming brave resolu- 
tions not to bb drawn into making the acquaintance of 
distracting }~oung women in Cambridge ; and who a month 


374 


HAMMERSMITH : 


ago, a day ago, would have thought it as likely that he 
would be dining with the Czar of all the Russias, or 
flirting with an empress, as that he would be carrying a 
young woman in his arms through leafy woods like these, 
and that young woman Miss Darby. 

“You mustn’t carry me so far without resting, Mr. 
Breese ! Aren’t you almost dead? ” she asked, as Breese 
put her down for a moment, and drew a long breath, 
making it as short as he could. 

“Oh, no!” said he, “you’re as light as a feather.” 
She laughed at the idea (you might have seen a pretty 
blush on her brown cheeks if there had been light 
enough) ; and presently Breese was carrying her again 
down the hill towards the mill, glad now that he had 
kept himself in such splendid training, but feeling that it 
would take him about all night to carry this plump young 
woman to the nearest house, and yet not appearing to 
dislike the strenuous labor. 

Not an easy task this, one would say who knows what 
it is to be carrying a hearty young American girl in his 
arms for a mile or two in the dark ; though you do relate, 
my beloved scholar of Old England, how you transported 
in like fashion a disabled pedestrian countrywoman of 
yours, rising ten stone and a half, for Heaven knows 
how many miles across your green island fields ! 

So, with rests and expostulation, slight expressions of 
pain from Miss Darby, and commiseration from Breese, 
who strode onward as fast as ever his legs would carry 
him with his fair load, they reached the old mill. They 
sat a while listening to the night-sounds, — the water run- 
ning idly past the old building, the moaning of the wind 
through the trees about them, — and watching the clear 
stars flowing in under a black tide of clouds that was 
robing up from the east. Fully a couple of hours must 
have elapsed since the accident in the glen. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


375 


“ I am so sorry for you, Mr. Breese ! ” said Miss Dar- 
by. “I shall never go on a picnic or excursion again as 
long as I live ! I think I had better be chained up at 
home, as you were suggesting, and not allowed to come 
out till I can take care of myself. I am a perfect Jonah 
always, I do declare! What time is it? Wouldn’t you 
suppose my father should be coming out by this time? ” 
“It is only a little after eight,” he answered. “Oh, 
we’re safe enough here ! I feel sure that somebody will 
come soon ; and, if not, I can easily run down to the near- 
est house and get a team. How is your foot now? ” 

“ Nicely, thanks ; but I can’t bear a particle of weight 
on it,” and, putting it to the ground, she winced again 
with the pain. 

Nobody appearing, the clouds rolling up blacker and 
more threatening, and Miss Darby still objecting to be left 
in the lonely woodland spot, Breese caught her up again in 
his arms, and was crossing a field near by, when the jodel 
of Ruddiman was heard in the distance, and lights soon 
appeared bobbing towards them. An ancient vehicle, 
creaking and wheezing through the night, presently drew 
up alongside of them, and the professor jumped out in 
great excitement. 

“ Heavens, Ellen, what a fright j t ou gave us ! What is 
it ? And how did you get lost ? ” 

“ We’ve not been lost, papa dear. I sprained my ankle 
u the glem Mr. Breese shouted and called for you, but 
All in vain ; and he — we’ve just succeeded in getting as 
. ? ar as here,” she said. “Mr. Breese has been as kind as 
he could bo,” she added. 

“ Whoa, back, you beasts ! ” Ruddiman was shouting 
to his alarmed animals, which had never dreamed of 
such a, pace as that to which they nad just been put; 
and the asthmatic conveyance was turned, Miss Darby 
was lifted carefully upon the cushions, and the four drove 


376 


HAMMERSMITH: 


home slowly, to the relief of the startled horses, and the 
far greater joy of the party gathered on the steps of the 
Higgins establishment, and consumed with anxiety. 

It was not a dangerous sprain. A few days of grace- 
ful invalidism, a few days of smothering attention and 
Flamingo gorgeousness of sympathy, and Miss Darby was 
quite herself again, and equal to almost any thing but 
hard pedestrian work. 

Some idea may be had of the extreme sensitiveness of 
Breese’s nature, however, when it is said, that, long before 
Miss Darby was able to join the various excursions which 
went on day after day, he had left the place, and returned 
to Boston ; to coach a freshman who was coming up to 
fall examinations, he said, but really to avoid the pointed 
allusions, the good-natured chaff, and the semi-sentimen- 
tal innuendoes which his connection with the glen mis- 
hap brought upon him. 

Miss Darby was kindness itself in her reference to the 
affair, thanking him ever so gratefully for his ready aid ; 
and Breese could not admire sufficiently the womanly tact 
she showed in never allowing the matter to be discussed 
when he was present. Nor could he sufficiently applaud 
her great good sense in never alluding in the slightest 
way to the precise manner of her conveyance from the 
glen to the old mill, of which everybody soon knew, 
of course, — thanks to Ruddiman, and the natural love of 
gossip common to such resorts, — and which became the 
basis of most of the chaff and nonsense aimed at Breese. 
It was strong and womanly in her not to make prudish, 
absurd objections when he had proposed to carry her, and 
she saw there was no other way of leaving the woods ; it 
was kind and thoughtful to make light of it, and pass 
it off with a joke, while he was trudging along with her t 
and feeling so pleasantly uncomfortable in her behalf, 
out it was the height of strength and thoughtfulness, and 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


077 


all that is sweetly womanly, never afterwards to allude ta 
it in the most indirect way. though by no means chary of 
her thanks, spoken and unspoken. 

But the others, or many others of the party, bah ! And 
Ruddiman ! Breese could not endure it all. I f he had 
not entertained the slightest sentimental regard for Miss 
Darby, if she had been no more to him than the most 
exclamatory of the Flamingoes, he would have had the 
same loathing of the underbred way in which his name 
and Miss Darby’s were associated, and in which people 
made merry at her expense and his. 

It would have been vastly better if Breese could have 
carried Ruddiman away with him, or muzzled him effectu- 
ally before he left, — better for Breese, better for the absent 
Hammersmith. For as every slight affair of Ruddiman’ s 
own soon grew to most abnormal proportions by virtue of 
the young fellow’s quickening imagination, and love of an 
audience, so the most harmless events transpiring about 
him were fanned into greatness by his abundant gossip 
and inflating spirit. Men stood aghast at their own histo- 
ries as they heard them noised about the Cambridge halls, 
until they were traced to Ruddiman the romancer, when 
they lifted their eyebrows, and said quietly, “Oh, Ruddi- 
man! ” 

So the brilliant historical romancer was busy now with 
this last episode in Breese’ s life. Hadn’t he had an im- 
portant part to play in it himself? And was a charming 
bit of biography to be lost to the world, merely because 
of the trouble of composition ? Hadn’t he had the dis- 
tinguished honor of rescuing the young couple in question? 
Hadn’t he heard the young woman tell her father in the 
carriage, on the way home ( sotto voce , to be sure, but 
what lightest whisper can history disregard, else what 
were history?), — hadn’t he heard her inform her father 
that Breese had carried her down from the glen in his 


378 


HAMMERSMITH : 


arms ? And what more inviting topic could that Ruddiman 
intellect, of which his mother had spoken so rapturously, 
find anywhere to amplify into credible history, than this 
same fact ? 

Before, and long after, Breese had left the Darby party 
on the island, therefore, the nimble Ruddiman intellect 
and the rosy Ruddiman imagination were at work upon 
this theme, ornamenting it with all manner of flowery 
addition, driving Breese into exile, then drawing fertile 
inferences from the very fact of his going away so sud- 
denly, and, altogether, preparing quite a spicy little ro- 
mance for the edification of the college-world during the 
coming solemn senior year. 

The first thing that met Hammersmith, then, when he 
returned to Cambridge in the fall, was this delightful 
bantling of Ruddiman’ s, which had waxed and grown 
remarkably lusty during the few weeks of the young 
man’s tendance, — a romantic bantling, which was cal- 
culated to raise quite a different interest in Breese, the 
severe scholar and self-sufficient philosopher, now thought 
to be going the way of all men, after all. 

What regard Hammersmith paid to this latest romance 
of Ruddiman’s, what was the moving cause of Breese’s 
abrupt withdrawal from the Darby party, and what fur- 
ther effect the meddlesome Ruddiman had upon the 
fortunes of the two friends Hammersmith and Breese, 
the course of this history will tend in some slight way to 
exhibit. 

Happy Ruddiman, prancing gayly through life, tram- 
pling down every thing that comes in his way ! Unhappy 
those on whose tender fields, and into whose careful pre- 
serves, his destructive tread shall come ! 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


379 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

SENIOR YEAR, AND ANOTHER PLUNGE BY BREESE. 

“ One who surpasses his fellow-citizens in virtue is no longer a part of the 
city. Their law is not for him, since he is a law to himself.” — Abistotle. 

“ Scaliger said of Erasmus, * Si minor esse voluit, major fuisset.’ ” — Selden. 
“ Everybody knows what whippings are; but nobody has as yet found out 
what love is.” — Heine. 

S ENIOR year, — the last brief resting-place, under the 
shadow of Alma Mater’s protecting elms, before the 
youth puts on his harness, and plunges into the whirling 
fight without. Ah, me ! the great plans, the close friend- 
ships, the profound gravity, of that final year ! 

The verdancy, the simplicity, the ardent spirit of frolic, 
of his earlier days are passed ; and the young man stands 
clothed with the mantle of dignity and maturity, counting 
himself already as one of the great company engaged 
in the world’s warfare outside the college-gates. How 
eagerly he listens now to the shouts and the clang of that 
warfare, viewing it from his sheltered niche ! How eas}’ 
to win seem its victories, its rich spoils, its comfortable 
places, to the youth untrained in its bitter reverses, its 
sad irony of reward, its unequal conditions of battle ! 
The world ! — what is it but a second college campus, 
where the youth has but to march forth high-hearted, reso- 
lute, and, lo ! all its honors and prizes, and satisfying 
applause, are his again ! 

So the peaceful hum went on in the old quadrangle, 
throughout the time-honored halls of the university ; and 
u U the country roundabout listened to the high resolves 


380 


HAMMERSMITH : 


and friendly vows of the youth as they paced its walks 
and lanes, its distant hills and woods. Could there be 
any doubt of the future, when this man at your side, and 
many another like him, on whose friendship you could rely, 
was joined to you by indissoluble bonds, and had declared, 
if not by words, yet by eloquent devotion, that he would 
stand by you, whatever came? And the arm that was 
linked in yours as you paced the fair college-walks, or 
the river-bank at sunset to see the crews come in, or saun- 
tered on moonlit evenings by the houses of your friends, 
and talked in a princely and sentimental way of this or 
that fair inmate, dreaming happily, let us hope, — could 
this arm ever fail you? Would it ever be withdrawn 
entirely, or forget to return the generous pressure of those 
steadfast days? Ah, happy, happy augury! Confident 
hope and artless trust of young manhood’s time ! What 
of later, more suspicious confidence can equal your un- 
doubting sincerity and buoyant strength? 


And Breese, all this time, while his name was being 
connected so industriously with Miss Darby’s ? — thanks to 
Ruddiman and kindred gossips. How shall I express the 
change, sudden, and yet not sudden, that had come over 
the severe student, the aspiring philosopher, the man 
strongly intrenched against the light attacks of contempo- 
•ary men and women? How, in the short space that can 
oe allotted to it in this biography, may I indicate the 
effect of the long acquaintance, the frequent interviews, 
the many meetings with Miss Darby in the social world of 
Cambridge, which have been not so much mentioned as 
hinted at in these pages? Or shall I say at once, — what 
you have long ago surmised, — that Breese had dropped 
his shield, and lowered his lance, confessing himself con- 
quered by Love, the all-conqueror? 

Yes, Breese the all-powerful, Breese, the crusader 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


381 


against society, Breese, the man u without a particle of 
sympathy in his composition,” had fallen victim to the 
same wkle-shooting urchin that brings us all down sooner 
or later. H> was burning with the same light fever 
which shall fasten upon you, my pretty miss, please 
God, and set } T our little heart ablaze for a certain dear 
object, let us hope, to be faithful and steadfast, and 
finally to find a little answering blaze lighting up the dear 
object for whom you are consuming yourself : else what 
a sacrifice and a wasteful conflagration we shall have ! 

Stern warrior as he was, accustomed to dispute every 
inch that he gave an invader, he had many a stout 
tussle with himself, many a flag-of-truce and parley with 
the freebooter Love. It was of no use. Tell me, you who 
have fought against it, and cried it down, and would have 
none of it, is it an easy victory that you have sought? 
And you who have fled to the uttermost parts of the earth, 
forswearing its very existence, — a vessel touches on 
your coast, a queen from out the East steps grandly 
ashore, you look into her eyes, and down go your vows 
and yourself at her feet : is it not so ? 

No, you can no more escape it than ducks can keep out 
of the water, or the pretty birds help twittering and mat- 
ing in the spring-time. It is a law of nature ; and, for 
one, I am infinitely amused at the awful profundity of 
youth, with their “ curl} 7 , gold locks,” who are so fond of 
declaring their superiority to the tender passion. It is 
vastly diverting as a spectacle ; but, lo ! a turn of the 
kaleidoscope, a little change in bits of color and lace, a 
droop of the eyelids, and the interesting sceptic dis- 
covers new beauty in life, and sighs and ogles, and mo- 
mently expires, with the weakest and most eager of us. 

And if you are a young woman, a very young woman, 
of course you do not assert your superiority to this tendei 
influence: what young woman ever did? You may be 


382 


HAMMERSMITH : 


dying from it ; but, oh, how carefully and gracefully you 
conceal its terrible effects on you ! How religiously you 
cherish every slightest word that the dear object has 
spoken to you ! And that little box, always locked, on 
your bureau, — how full it is of light souvenirs ! — bits of 
ribbon associated with him, rosebuds and posies of every 
color under heaven, perhaps a curl or two of his beloved 
hair. Yes ; but you are so modest and sweet, and en- 
tirely correct with it all ! And you might go on and die, 
with your pretty secret wrapped about your heart, before 
you would tell a soul of your consuming trouble. But let 
us hope that the dear object may spare the world so sad 
a spectacle, and you so lingering a death, and may dash 
up on his fiery charger (of course he keeps a noble charger, 
and rides most beautifully, like a — like a — what would 
you call it? — like a centaur), and whisk you away, 
scarcely listening to your remonstrances. For that is as 
it should be, unless we wish that the faithful female heart 
should continue to yearn and burn, and at last sigh itself 
out in tender sobs, — that is as it should be, I say; for 
certainly we men would not wish it otherwise : nor, what- 
ever views we may have about your “ rights ” (of which 
you will hear enough later in life) , would we wish you, in 
these matters, to be other than the modest, secretive, and 
thorough^ charming creatures that } T ou are, loyal to your- 
selves, and suffering the shears of the Fates rather than 
to attempt a bold or forward thing. 

But Breese was not a gallant young fellow, prancing 
about the country on a charger, seeking lively adventure ; 
nor had he overmuch knowledge of young women in real 
life, their ways of thinking, their unconscious duplicity, 
their equally unconscious habit of destruction. His ac- 
quaintance with “the ladies,” as my Lord Tufton wa« 
wont to call them, was largely drawn from history and 
literature, — most dangerous sources of instruction on 


HIP HARVARD DAYS. 


883 


this head, — and his experience in Cambridge life had 
been with singularly straightforward and ingenuous young 
women, who certainly had not tried their wiles on him, 
and might have failed most disastrously if they had 
attempted to throw their pretty lassos over the head of 
the grave scholar. 

Every thing with Breese was subjected to analysis. We 
have seen him standing in the Fayerweather party, trying 
to probo the motives of the gay crowd, analyzing the 
effect and the proper use of natural scenery (if I may use 
such an expression) in his Mount Desert talk with Miss 
Darby, dissecting his own feelings so nicely in the matter 
of the Hasty Pudding election ; and so on, in many other 
cases that I might instance. Every thing was subjected 
to analysis ; every thing was weighed in the delicate scales 
of his sensibilities. Many a man, indeed, had been known 
to shun him, for fear that Breese might bring his pitiless 
lens to bear upon him. It is all very well for a man to be 
aiming at an absolutely correct life, an absolutely correct 
estimate of every thing and everybody about him ; bn*- s 
personified conscience continually at your elbow, remarka- 
bly clear-eyed, remarkably relentless, is hardly an agreea- 
ble companion for any of us, much less so for a body of 
impetuous youngsters rather fond of having their own 
heads, and doing their own analysis when the time 
comes. 

The first question, then, naturally, with so sensitive a 
man, was always, “What is right in the present emer- 
gency ? What should I do if I were absolute master of 
myself, and not afraid in the slightest measure of the 
opinions of men?” That double question he tried to 
answer fearlessly ; and all the world could not alter the 
action which was sure to follow, swift, decisive. 

What, then, was the present emergency? And what 
was his duty to Miss Darby, as much as to himself. 


884 


HAMMERSMITH : 


when he thought of the many-tongued rumors that came 
to him now and then, every time louder, linking his name 
so bewildering^ with Miss Darby’s ? 

His duty to Miss Darby, as much as to himself, urged 
him to see her, to give her an opportunity of saying if 
this gossip should continue or not, and if he should have 
the authority to silence the busy tongue of rumor one way 
or the other. Only a coward, he felt, would sit down 
quietly, and let the rumors fty. How could he know what 
their effect might be on Miss Darby ? How could he know 
any thing, except a certain very precious fact, which he 
hardly dared name to himself until he had seen her on 
whom every thing depended ? 

We do not need to follow the tiresome, analytical man 
further in this juncture, therefore, or insist that this was 
an emergency greater than any in which he had been 
called upon to act : that goes without sajdng. We do not 
need to accompany him to all the Cambridge gatherings, 
of one kind and another, where he and Miss Darby were 
brought together again in the fall after their Mount 
Desert experience. We do not need to say that it was 
only after long debate, and many changing answers to the 
double question above mentioned, that he decided upon 
seeing Miss Darb} 7 , and settling his fate one way or the 
other. We can imagine the quandary. We can imagine 
the embarrassed attitude which Miss Darby and he were 
forced to maintain towards each other. We can imagine 
how this embarrassment was increased greatly when Mr. 
Tom happened to be present, as was frequently the case ; 
and how it became more awkward still, as the gossip, 
growing by what it fed on, buzzed more and more about 
their ears, and made capital out of every casual meeting 
and most commonplace tete-a-tete of the two. 

We only need to know that somewhere in the latter 
part of the fall, when the mottled leaves were falling in 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


385 


showers from the college elms, and the fingers of crick- 
eters were numb and tingled as they caught the hard 
ball in their games, and the crews on the river were tak- 
ing shorter pulls, and meeting white- caps oftener in the 
basin below, Breese left his rooms one quiet evening, 
and walked briskly to Miss Darby’s, slackening his pace 
as he neared the house. 

He entered. She thanked him for a beautiful basket of 
flowers that stood on the centre-table ; and an interview 
took place whose sanctity preserves it from explicit men- 
tion in this place : its nature we shall learn when Ham- 
mersmith is first allowed to learn it. Then, too, we may 
be permitted to know why it was, whether from over- 
powering joy or tumultuous grief, that Breese was seen, a 
couple of hours later, by the casual policeman, running 
fiercely down to Harvard Square, his hat on the back of 
his head, — seen, as well, by another person, soon to be 
mentioned. 

He was leaning out of his window late that night, look- 
ing up at the tracery of the elms against the sky, when 
a number of men passed down Church Street, singing a 
great chorus on their way home from a society meeting. 

“ Halloo, Breese ! ” shouted somebody from the street ; 
and Breese stepped back, drew his red curtains hastily, 
and stretched himself before his light coal-fire, refuge 
of the student alike in contemplative pleasure and gloomy 
grief, inspiration of his sentiment, kindler of much of his 
literary work. 


386 


HAMMERSMITH : 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

IN WHICH A GREAT MANY PEOPLE ARE BOWLED OVER. 

“ The charming Robert has no mind, they say; 

I prove he has : it changes every day.” — Lady Blessington. 

“ Quale caput, sed cerebrum non habet.” — Suidas. 

“ Will you not, when you have me, throw stocks at my head, and cry, * Woold 
my eyes had been beaten out of my head with a cricket-ball the day before I saw 
thee ! ’ ” — Edward Phillips, Mysteries of Love and Eloquence. 

T HE gallant Ruddiman, whose last active operations 
we have seen in the memorable glen excursion at 
Mount Desert, many weeks ago, has been by no means 
idle since that day bright with gay Flamingoes and rapid 
Scurrys. 

Indeed, it would be difficult to imagine that ardent and 
interesting young gentleman in any other state than one 
of the most bustling activity, so feverish and excited did 
his successive all-absorbing passions render him. Only at 
night could he be said to enjoy the quiet which such rest- 
less natures need. And yet it were hard to call that quiet, 
which was broken by the youth’s troubled dreams of this 
or that fair face, and this or that pair of distracting eyes 
(whose color changed with every moon) , and which often 
left him in the early morning sitting, propped up in hia 
pretty bed, smoking gloomily, and ogling a small photo- 
graph hung up in a little shrine not far from his couch, — 
a photograph which also went into eclipse with every 
moon, and was followed shortly by another, by a different 
artist perhaps, and of quite different style, which waxed 
and waned, and disappeared utterly, like the rest- 


HIS HARVARD DAYS, 


387 


If I were to give a list, in fact, of the various Mauds 
and Marians, Belles and Belindas, Lucys and Leonoras, 
which came and went in that pretty shrine set up in the 
midst of flashy sporting-pictures, spirited views of French 
life in colors, favorite actresses, and disconsolate females 
by the score, it would make a Leporello’s roll, most 
bewildering to behold, only less so than the dazzling 
sirens themselves, if they could all be marshalled at once, 
and come to upbraid the false but funny Ruddiman in his 
den. What an array they would make, to be sure, with 
their blue, black, hazel, and nondescript eyes ! And how 
the bold Ruddiman even would be forced to tremble before 
their united beams, to each of which, in turn, he had con- 
secrated himself, and vowed eternal devotion ! — or else 
death. 

But, bless you ! he was no abandoned rake or hardened 
villain, like many a man whose elbows he brushed as he 
jostled his way through life. He was a harmless, funny, 
egotistic young gentleman of fashion, convinced that every 
young woman that smiled upon him was already far gone 
with the Ruddiman fever, and gratifying his tastes and 
his desire of amusement in as innocent ways as anybody 
could well wish. If the pile of opera-checks on his man- 
tel, or the rows of the same stuck into the edges of his 
mirror, with the files of theatre-bills suspended alongside 
his fireplace, showed that much of his time was spent in 
the pleasure-halls of the neighboring capital, was it not 
well? Was it not meant that these two years of his at 
Cambridge should give room for him to inform his mind 
on the noble tragedy and the frisky farce, the tender 
vaudeville and the inspiring opera, only to be enjoyed in 
the theatres of Boston? And why not preserve, as he and 
many others like him did, the programmes and the checks, 
and the books for the opera- as diplomas, as evidence of 
graduation in this Thespian College ? 


388 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Let us not be too severe on him, but rather be glad, 
that, in the halls that sheltered a melancholy, sober- 
minded Breese, — and so many more that were making life 
a sombre and a serious thing, — there could be a place for 
this funny gentleman of the jodel (which, by the way, he 
had taken to shouting fiercely in the quadrangle, of nights, 
since its success at Mount Desert, to the no small dismay 
of proctors and tutors) ; and let us be thankful that his 
interesting existence was not entirely crushed out, or 
frowned into dismal silence, by all the learned gentlemen 
and habits about him. For Ruddiman, when he was 
silent, and other than his own merry self, was the most 
dismal and utterly mournful sight in the world, after the 
manner of his type. 

It was often, then, of a morning, after a night passed 
in dreaming of the particular fair face enshrined for the 
month, that these sombre fits caught him. Just about 
when Breese, or Hammersmith, or any sensible fellow, 
was springing from his bed, and dashing into his bath with 
a shout, preparing for his day’s hearty work, this love- 
sick 3 T oung gentleman was yawning on his couch, stretch- 
ing out his hand for a pipe or a cigar, and continuing to 
puff away most dejectedly. 

It was often, too, when thus propped up among his 
pillows, enveloped in smoke, and casting piteous glances 
towards his place of worship (perhaps, in order to be sure 
who was the saint enshrined for the time) , that his man 
Waddle, opening the door softly to summon his lord for 
pra} T ers, and to varnish the little rows of shoes in his 
closet, spied him smoking there in gloomy grandeur, and 
trembled; for the number of pillows and shoes, books, 
;;anes, bags of tobacco, and other missiles that the un- 
happy Waddle was made to dodge, when his master was 
in a morose mood, was something beyond counting 
Much matutinal dodging had given the squat Waddle a 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


889 


commendable agility, however, which he proceeded to pul 
in practice so soon as the door was opened and the dismal 
smoker was discovered ; the labor of evasion being only 
varied by the reflection as to what the especial style of 
missile was to be for the morning in question. 

So the proctor in his entry continued to remonstrate, as 
the bang, or the thud, or the rattle of Ruddiman’s morn- 
ing salute, was heard in the great man’s room in the 
corner ; and Ruddiman continued to be dejected, and to 
take it out upon Waddle, who dodged and ducked, and 
came up smiling, and yet returned morning after morning 
to repeat the performance ; for Ruddiman was best of 
paymasters, withal, and Waddle was not free from a share 
of menial pride in serving so wealthy a young buck, — “no 
end of a swell,” as Waddle confided to the gentry of his 
station in life outside the college-walls. What fragments 
of book-learning Waddle had appropriated, moreover, 
were pleasantly, let us hope profitably, employed many a 
time, when his young lord was away at prayers or else- 
where, in deciphering the elegant little notes, in all 
shades of ink, with every manner of tremulous flourish, 
that lay about upon the tables and shelves. Waddle’s 
artistic eye, too, in no wise satisfied with the sight of 
the inexpugnable “ goodies ” against whom he stumbled 
as they went their rounds, was delighted to roam over the 
chaste gallery of art that ornamented his master’s bower, 
and especially to scrutinize the little faces which appeared 
successively in the velvet shrine of his devastating lord 
~nd paymaster. Many was the knowing leer that he gave 
to the pretty pasteboards (which would have blushed fear- 
fully, if it had been possible) , and many the time that he 
remarked* to himself, “My eye, but she’s a stunner! 
He’s a-going it, bless me if he ain’t!” with other such 
complimentary criticisms. 

Now, we might suppose that a young gentleman so 


390 


HAMMERSMITH : 


tender, so sensitive, so given to fits of gloom and despond- 
ency, would be wofully torn and maimed by the havoc that 
all these eyes, and smiling faces, and deep passions, had 
wrought in him. But, bless you, no ! There is no more 
pathetic fact in natural history than the ease with which 
healthy youngsters like Ruddiman survive wounds like 
his, and, directly they hear the old familiar call of the 
bird, are up and off for the enchanted woods again. And 
the sport is by no means confined to youth of Ruddiman’ s 
age or experience, indeed : it is apt to be carried on by 
elderly sportsmen, who have to be dragged to the woods 
in coaches, and strapped on their horses, and almost to 
have a bell rung for them when the game comes in sight, 
like the blind hunter mentioned by Saunders. 

The Waddle warfare over, and our noble Ruddiman 
arraj'ed for the day, his gloom seems to slip away as 
easily as — what shall I say ? — as easily as the memory 
of his last flirtation. You shall see him presently issuing 
forth in all the splendor of youth, patronizing mighty 
boating-men and cricketers, and now and then an unappre- 
ciated scholar whom he cannot avoid, and only toward 
nightfall, as the pensive twilight comes on, and he reflects 
how he shall pass the evening, beginning to relapse into 
moodiness, and give way to changing visions of loveliness. 

How one small frame could endure all this carnage, and 
one small heart unduly tested could carry all its weighty 
cares, forever changing their object of anxiety, is hard to 
say. I am convinced that the little man would have been 
too small for the emergency, that he would have exploded 
some fine day, and perished miserably from off the earth, 
with his hand on his heart, had it not been for one fact, 
which connects him, indeed, with Hammersmith, and is 
the main reason for his association in this biography. 

For it is incomprehensible, with all his crowding affairs 
of the heart during these two years at Cambridge, that he 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


391 


would ever have found room for half of them in his small 
frame, if he had not made use of poor Tom, and poured 
off into his ears many and many a harrowing history and 
stifling fact which he could no longer hold. There was 
Miss Pinckney, enslaver of men, at whose belt Ruddiman 
had dangled picturesquely for a brief while ; Miss Gordon, 
Letitia Gordon, Letitia, the joy-bringer, whom he had 
rescued from a ferocious drove of cattle in Harvard 
Square, and from whom he allowed himself to receive joy 
for a second brief season, with the approbation of her 
mamma, who had just brought her pretty daughter to the 
Cambridge market, and whom nobody knew. Then there 
was Miss Axlehurst, the daughter of a local wheelwright, 
about whom he was simply wild, only prevented from a 
summary elopement by counsellor Hammersmith, who had 
a poor opinion of runaways of such a character. Next 
the Flamingo had burst upon him in all her glory ; and, if 
you wish to know the sighs and vows that that gay chirp- 
er called out from young Ruddiman, you must go to Mount 
Desert, and ask the groves and cliffs and favorite haunts 
of the two. I have no doubt, I may say in passing, that 
he is largely to blame for the long line of his successors 
in the deadly pastime on that ecstatic island ; the example 
is so infectious ! Then the Flamingo had disappeared on 
the western horizon, waving a graceful u au revoir , my 
funny little man,” to him as she sailed away ; and Waddle 
had gazed fascinated at several other round little faces in 
the cherished shrine, before the present occupant of the 
velvet frame had appeared, — Miss Dora Malachite, second 
sister of our old friend Samuel. 

“ This time there’s no use talking, Tom! ” Ruddiman 
had exclaimed, when his passion was a few hours old. 
4 I’m gone up completely. Can't sleep, can’t eat, can’t 
faink of any thing else ! ” 

“Who is it this month!” asked Hammersmith 
blandly. 


392 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“What! Who — O gammon, Tom! You’re making 
fun of me. Don’t! ” urged the young fellow. “I tell 
you it’s no laughing matter. You think I’m joking too, 
perhaps. But I tell you, Tom, a thing like this doesn’t 
strike a man but once in his life, and ” — 

“You’re sure of that? You ought to know,” said 
Tom. 

“ Don’t, I tell you ! ” pleaded Ruddiman. “ Tom, you 
are getting to have a most confounded sarcastic and cynL 
cal mood of late; and I — I don’t like it. You think 
I’m a little beggar that doesn’t know his own mind, I 
suppose, just because I have chosen to have a good time 
when I could, and amuse myself. But I swear to you 
that every girl I ever met before in my life might be sunk 
in the middle of the sea, and I wouldn’t mind ! ” 

“ You’re very ferocious,” said Tom. “ Every girl you 
ever met! That’s very comprehensive.” 

“Well, I mean my — my — those — oh, you know 
what I mean, Tom ! You can go on laughing, and mak- 
ing sport of me ; but some day you’ll hear that I’ve per- 
ished, Tom, — perished miserably. You’ll come round 
to my rooms, perhaps, and find a few charred remains 
of a once happy existence, and you’ll wonder who it is ; 
and at last you’ll say, ‘ Ah, it’s Ruddiman, poor Ruddi- 
man ! I didn’t suppose he had taken it so to heart.’ 
For I tell you, I’m wild, simply wild, my dear Tom ; and 
I think I shall certainly die, if I don’t — well, if she 
doesn’t smile on ine.” 

“ That’s what you said about the Axlehurst,” inter- 
posed Hammersmith quietly, as he was busy at the fire- 
place, brewing a favorite decoction. 

“ Oh, hang it ! ” said Ruddiman. “ Let bygones be b} r - 
gones, eh, Tom? Shall I keep reminding you of the 
Boggle affair, my dear fellow, that everybody has heard 
so much of ? ” 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


393 


“Yes,” said Hammersmith, facing about, 44 when I 
come to you, and take on about a new girl every month, 
you rascal ! ” 

“ Well, Tom, I’m a bore, I know it. You must excuse 
me, though. I should burst if I didn’t tell somebody 
my troubles. And who can I go to but you? Free- 
mantle is too high and mighty for anybody nowadays ; 
Goldie never looks at a woman, though they do say he 
was uncommon sweet on Miss Pinckney for a day or two ; 
and Breese, — ugh ! he’d give me a Greek play to read, I 
suppose, or one of his everlasting books of philosophy 
that you speak of.” 

“ Ugh! You needn’t be afraid of that! ” said Ham- 
mersmith. “ I don’t think he would ! ” 

“ Why, what do you mean by that? I never can more 
than half understand you of late, Tom. Oh ! by the way, 
did you know Breese was engaged? ” 

“Now, see here,” said Tom, walking up to him with 
a pair of lemon-squeezers in his hand, “ talk about your- 
self as much as you please. If it saves you from explo- 
sion, why, come here and fire away, whether I’m here or 
not : you’re quite welcome to my rooms. But don’t let 
me hear another word of a man like Breese, or anybody 
else. He is quite able to look after himself. And I’m 
afraid, Ruddiman, you’re a most confounded gossip and 
gadabout.” 

“ Everybody knows it,” put in Ruddiman. “Every- 
body’s talking about it. I thought you might like to hear 
.t, that’s all. I was down at the florist’s yesterday, and saw 
a most tremendous basket of flowers, nothing but roses arid 
heliotrope. 4 Going to Miss Darby,’ the boy said when I 
asked him ; and there was Breese ’s card stuck in the top 
of it : 4 For Miss Darby, compliments John Breese.’ ” 

44 Well,” said Hammersmith, “ what of that? Can’t a 
man send a }~oung lady a basket of flowers without being 
engaged to her? Haven’t you ever done it yourself ? ” 


894 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“ Yes ; but that’s different. Breese ” — 

“Yes, I know it’s different, devilish different !” an 
swered Hammersmith harshly. “ Ruddiman, I advise 
you to let other men alone a little more, or you’ll get your- 
self into trouble. What right have you to go about pry- 
ing into Breese ’s affairs, asking whose basket of flowers 
that was, and so on? ” 

“ I don’t go prying about,” said Ruddiman. “ I 
couldn’t help seeing the flowers. I had a perfect right 
to ask whose they were : if the fellow didn’t want to tell 
me, it? was his business, not mine. I didn’t go prying 
about last evening, either, when Breese passed me on a 
dead-run on Brattle Street, with his hat on the back of 
his head, and jumping posts as he ran. A man doesn’t 
run tearing through the streets at night, jumping horse- 
posts, for nothing, I tell you ! ” 

“ Jumping posts ! Breese ! Did you see him jumping 
posts ? ’ ’ 

“ Well, I saw him jump one, — a low one ! ” returned 
Ruddiman. 

“ Yes, one : perhaps he didn’t jump that ! And that’s 
the way your stories grow,” said Tom. “ I’ve no doubt 
that story will be coming back to me from New York soon ; 
and the next edition of ‘ College Words and Customs ’ 
will mention as a peculiar and edifying fact the habit that 
engaged men at Harvard have of running out, and jumping 
posts and fences in the dark by way of celebrating their 
engagements. Did you ever jump a post, Rud ? ” 

“ I don’t — I don’t think I ever did.” 

“No, I thought not! Ergo you are not engaged: 
ergo you never will be.” 

“Come, Tom; don’t make such a row about it! I 
meant no offence ; and I assure 3 7 ou it looked deused queer 
to see Breese pegging ahead in that way, after ten — yes, 
nearly eleven o’clock, coming from the Darbys’ direction. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


395 


Wouldn’t have thought any thing of it, if I hadn’t seen 
his basket of tea-roses and heliotrope, and if it wasn’t the 
common report.” 

“ Starting from we know whom,” said Hammersmith. 
“ Well, never mind ; drink that, and forget you said any 
thing at all. ” And Ruddiman accepted the grateful punch, 
and probably had a fervent secret toast of his own as he 
drained it ; for he suddenly relapsed into the most pro- 
nounced Ruddiman gloom, and hugged the arm of the sofa 
in the most dejected way imaginable. 

Tom, meanwhile, had taken down a pipe, and was fill- 
ing the room with fragrant fumes of Latakia, as he sat 
before the fire, thinking of what Ruddiman had told him ; 
for, behind the fellow’s extravagance and gossip, there 
was unmistakably a truthful fact or two that did not tend 
to his tranquillity of mind. 

When, therefore, after much hugging of the sofa-arm, 
and many piteous looks for sympathy from the impassive 
Tom, Ruddiman broke out again about his own troubled 
affairs, “ Tom, old fellow, I tell you I’m in a bad way, 
I don’t know what to do,” Hammersmith, recalled with a 
jar to the trivial world of Ruddiman, blurted out, — 

“ Oh, hang it ! Go home, and go to bed.” 

But Ruddiman put on so dolorous a face, and looked so 
unutterably miserable, as he lay coiled up on the sofa, 
that Hammersmith, bursting into a loud laugh, and com- 
ing over to him, felt of his pulse, and went through many 
other mockeries of medical anxiety, all which the young 
swain received with the gravest possible air, convinced 
that he was really in a bad way, — in a bad way with the 
same pleasant tortures that had shaken him many times 
before, and shake us all once or twice in our lives, but 
vhich we manage to survive with remarkable success, as 
1 3 well, and as Heaven has wisely ordained. 

The unhappy patient, cheered by this apparently genu- 


396 


HAMMEKSMITII : 


ine sympathy, imparted many interesting facts concern 
ing his attack, and amused Hammersmith not a little. 
All his talk was of Miss Malachite’s incomprehensible 
behavior. He told how he had taken her out to dinner 
at the Mintons’ a few days since, and she had deliber- 
atel} r set herself to entertaining Freemantle, who was on 
her other side, so that he, Ruddiman, could hardly have 
a word with her through the whole dinner ; what misery 
he had endured at the Glee Club concert, three evenings 
ago, when she had come out with a party from town, 
with Witherspoon, McGregor, and a lot of graduates, in 
attendance, and he had only been able to stand staring 
at her from a side-aisle as she talked with the men of 
her party, out of his reach ; how he had rushed wildly to 
the door to have at least a bow from her as she went out, 
but she had passed him on the arm of Witherspoon, with- 
out even noticing him ; and, later, he had seen that famous 
boating-man handing her into her carriage, looking entire- 
ly bewitching in her little pink hood, “and I standing 
in a crowd of fellows, read} 7 to choke with disgust,” he 
had added. “I could have touched her as she passed, 
Tom. But I don’t wonder she didn’t look at me : I’m a 
poor devil, who hasn’t a thing to recommend him but his 
money, more’s the pity ! And I’m going to die, and put 
an end to it all. If I was only clever, or a boating-man 
like you, or could do any thing but smoke and dance, and 
play billiards, I might have a better show. How does a 
man get to be clever, Tom? It must be jolly to be clever ; 
and be able to say things.” 

“ I don’t know, Bud, I’m sure ; never had any expe- 
rience : but I can tell you one thing, it isn’t by dropping 
into the dumps, and swearing you’re going to die whether 
or no. All the women in the world aren’t worth that ; 
at least, no such girl as you and I are thinking of, that 
can play a fellow on a hook and line just to see him 


HIS HAH YARD DAYS. 


397 


Bquirm. Let me give you another piece of advice,” he 
said, as Ruddiman at last was leaving. “ I don’t ask 
anv thing for it, you know : you can take it or not, as 
you please. But why don’t you go into cricket, or a 
double-scull, or walking, or any thing except this infernal 
hanging about parties, and dawdling after girls? It would 
set you up wonderfully, my dear fellow ; and you would 
learn to snap your fingers at the whole female sex.” 

Ruddiman showed a feeble glow as Hammersmith went 
on in his enthusiasm ; but the idea of ever being able to 
snap his fingers so comprehensively was too much for him, 
and he shook his head dolefully. He felt cheered by 
Hammersmith’s talk, however ; and although protesting 
that he was good for nothing, “ only a deused little fool 
of a gold-bug,” as he expressed it, he promised to think 
of it, and try to do something to ward off his frequent 
blues. 

“ Old Waddle will be as glad as anybody, if I succeed,” 
he said rather ruefully, as he was opening the door to go. 

“ I should think so,” answered Tom, “ if the old bird 
is bombarded so frightfully every morning as you say. 
I say, come down to the Bostons’ ground to-morrow, and 
see our match with the Eleven. You might as well pick 
up a little knowledge of the game. You would make a 
tiptop fellow for point or slip, if you could learn not to 
shut your eyes when a hot ball comes. I’ll lend you 
4 The Cricket Field,’ if you wish : best book on the game 
that’s out. Say you’ll come.” 

44 I’ll try. We have a few games of the billiard tourna- 
ment that we were intending to play out to-morrow after- 
noon ; but I think they can be postponed. Good-night, 
yld fellow. Will you excuse my boring you, and taking 
on so? ” 

44 Don’t speak of it,” answered Tom. 44 Good-night.” 
Auid Ruddiman marched off, feeling already as if he were 


398 


HAMMERSMITH : 


a famous cricketer, who had carried his bat out in num. 
bers of closely-contested matches. Tom sat a while with 
his waning fire ; and at last, as he arose, and drew the 
curtains, said to himself, “ Well, old Hammersmith, this 
will never do. You must find out about this matter pretty 
soon, and take a decisive step one way or the other. 
Which way will it be, I wonder ? ’ ’ 

The close-clipped turf of the Boston Cricket Club’s 
grounds in East Cambridge, kept rolled between wickets 
as smooth as a parlor-floor ; the simple club-house of the 
day, surmounted by the club-flags, and swarming with 
cricketers, tough, brown-cheeked fellows, forever trying 
on pads and gloves and wonderful cricket-shoes, and 
handling their favorite bats with a fondness which only a 
cricketer can appreciate ; the groups of partisans ranged 
about the field ; the quiet and methodical progress of the 
game, broken only by the cries of the umpire, “Play,” 
or “ Over,” or “ Stumped,” or “ Not out,” as the case 
may be ; and the applause of the spectators as a hit is 
made, and the ball goes flying over the field, while rapid 
movement takes the place of watchful repose on the part 
of the players, — how can justice be done in these already 
too numerous pages to the beauty of such a scene, such a 
well-ordered cricket-ground on the day of a great match ? 

Old cricketers of the “ Aristonicans,” the “ Harvards,” 
the “ Nonantums,” who may now be standing up to quite 
different bowling, and making quite different hits from 
those of your spryer days, grant an ex-member this indul- 
gence, and pardon him if he lingers a while over the 
attractive features of the game which we played together 
in the days before the flood, when base-ball was round- 
ers, still in its round jackets, and the senior’s dignity, 
even, did not prevent his joining in the most graceful 
of field-games. And you who never fingered a spring) 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


399 


cricket-bat, or stood up before the bowling of the New- 
halls? — well, I’m sorry for you; and I hope you have 
some other happy sport of your youth to play over again 
in fancy, recalling the hearty zest of those earlier times, 
when you were slighter in build than now, but with, oh, 
such an inordinate capacity for enjoyment ! 

It was after a very close game on these grounds of tbe 
Bostons, in which the Harvards were beaten by a half- 
dozen runs, and Mr. Tom had nearly succeeded in 44 carry- 
ing out his bat ; ” after the ride home in the coach, when 
they sang their way up to the Square, causing many a 
curtain to be drawn, and many a face to appear at the 
windows, as the familiar college-choruses were heard.; 
and after a rather uproarious supper at Kent’s, bespoken 
by Freemantle and Ruddiman, who had ridden ahead on 
finding that the Eleven were to be too late for their own 
dinners; — it was after all this merry afternoon and even- 
ing of sport and conviviality, that Hammersmith, flushed 
with his success and the “warm rain of punch” at 
Kent’s, came, still in his cricket-uniform and in a mood 
to defy anybody and everybody, to look in upon Breese. 
To look in upon Breese, and see if any thing could be 
made out of that severe and scholarly old party: this 
was about the way that the thought ran in the mind of 
Mr. Tom at this rather nebulous stage of the evening. 
It might have been much better for all concerned, had he 
waited until some clearer moment, when he might have 
shaped both his thoughts and his speech in somewhat 
more distinct form. 

4 4 Halloo, old boy ! ” he shouted, bursting in upon Breese. 
and slapping him familiarly on the back. 

44 How are you, Hammersmith ? ” answered Breese, gath- 
ering hastily some small manuscript on which he was busy. 

44 Come to get your congratulations ! I’m cock of the 
walk to-day, old boy : give us your hand ! ” 


400 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“ So I hear,” answered Breese. “I’m sure I’m very 
glad. I should have gone down myself to see your 
famous batting, but I had a cub to attend to. So you 
made the score of the day, eh? ” 

“Oh, yes, by Jove! ” said Tom, as his eyes flashed; 
“batted ’em all over the field. Nobody could bowl me 
down till they put on an infernal old corkscrew bowler ; 
and he took me first pop. Talking of pop, have you got 
an}- thing on tap, Breese? ” 

“I believe my ale is not out,” said Breese; and he 
fetched a couple of glasses and a plate of biscuit ; and the 
two fell to talking of the day’s sport and the play of 
the different members of the Eleven. 

Tom relapsed into rather gloomy quiet after a bit, 
gazing into the fire, and chewing at a cigar that had 
gone out. But when Breese proposed the health of the 
Eleven, and filled up Tom’s glass, it seemed to give him 
an idea ; and he shouted out, — 

“ Oh, hang the Eleven ! I know a toast that’s worth 
two of that, old cove. Here’s to Her ! ” he said, with a 
wink at Breese which made him start, and change color 
hke a girl. 

“ I don’t know what you mean ! What do you mean, 
sir? ” he asked abruptly, putting down his glass. 

“Oh, come now! we understand each other. Here’s 
to Her with a big H ! Here’s to }^ou ! Here’s” — 
“Hammersmith, stop where you are! I suppose we 
do understand each other, as you say ; and I suppose 
there are other people that understand each other. But 
I don’t think that this is the way to refer to young ladies 
of our acquaintance, even if they were most casual ac- 
quaintances ; and I don’t think you are in the condition 
to talk of this matter as calmly as it deserves. It is par- 
ticularly disagreeable to me at this time, and I forbid your 
paying another syllable about it ! ” 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


403 


“ Who says I’m not in a condition to speak calmly of 
this matter ? what matter ? Who mentioned an}" names ? ’ ’ 
shouted Hammersmith, sober in an instant. “What au- 
thority have you to forbid my talking of what I please ? ’ * 

“ No matter what authority,” said Breese calmly, ris- 
ing, and folding his arms. “ I forbid you : that’s all.” 

“What if I prefer not to mind your command! ” ex 
claimed Hammersmith, flinging his cigar into the fire, 
rising, and facing Breese under the gaslight, his eyes 
snapping with excitement, and the two making a startling 
picture of impetuous rage and calm indignation. Heav- 
ens, what a tussle it would be, if these two friends — the 
great boating-man, with his nerves tingling like electric 
cords under the effects of his fury ; and the athletic schol- 
ar, every muscle hardened like a whip-cord by three years, 
yes, a young lifetime, of hardy exercise — were to lay 
hands on each other, here in the dead of night, in 
Breese’ s isolated room ! But one at least is too cool and 
sensible for that. Submitting to Hammersmith’s glaring 
gaze for a moment, Breese turned on his heel, threw the 
entry-door wide open, and, stepping back, answered witn 
cutting politeness, — 

“In that case I can only assert the authority that 
every man has over his own rooms ; and I know that you 
are too much of a gentleman to deny that.” 

Hammersmith’s face darkened : he looked as if he 
would spring on him, as he would have done if Breese 
had said another word. Breese was probably conscious 
of this certainty, as he said not another word, but stood 
leaning against the table, his hands at his coat-collar, 
looking placidly at his book-shelves. Hammersmith took 
out a fresh cigar, lighted it slowly with a taper at the fire- 
place, pulled once or twice, took up his hat, and, without a 
word, went out at the door, and so home. Breese stood 
a moment, listening to him as he whistled an operatic air 
on his way down the entry, and then closed the door. 


402 


HAMMERSMITH : 


You may be sure that there was some very elaborate 
analysis in that room before Breese closed his eyes in 
sleep, and a very rapid verdict pronounced in the room of 
Hammersmith, as Mr. Tom made up his mind, in a hazy 
sort of way, that it was all true, — Ruddiman had only 
announced correctty, and Breese was not presumptuous iu 
claiming authority to speak for Miss Darby, and forbid her 
name to be lightty referred to. 

Both 3 T oung men were, of course, quite settled in their 
own minds that they were right, each for himself, in the 
evening’s actions, and had only behaved as they should 
have behaved under the circumstances. But one of them 
sat up long, analyzing his own thoughts, and endeavoring 
to imagine some way by which the bad effect of their mu- 
tual words might be remedied. The other fell off quickly 
into deep sleep, trying to believe that there was not a 
woman in the world worth thinking about, and yet prov- 
ing how difficult it was, by hating and envying Breese 
most emphatically at the same time. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


403 


CHAPTER XXV. 


A worldling’s ADVICE, WITH A SPEECH FROM MR. TOM. 

“ It is an olde proverbe, that, if one dwell the next doore to a creple, he will 
earn to hault : if one bee conversant with an hipocrit, he wil soone endevour to 
dissemble.”— John Lyly, Euphues. 


HIS, then, was the result of Breese’s plunging into 



-A- the social life against which he had set himself so 
steadfastly at the beginning of his college-course. This 
was the result of that light compact between Tom and 
Miss Darby before that fatal night at the Fayerweathers’, 
— a compact entered upon in a spirit of fun and curiosity 
and friendliness combined. This was the outcome of all 
Hammersmith’s friendship with Breese, which had been 
much more close than these pages have been able to indi- 
cate, and of Hammersmith’s long intimacy with Miss 


Darby. 


As the gossipy stories which had driven Breese on to 
propose to Miss Darby, giving her an opportunity to 
accept or reject him, had been the first thing to reveal 
to Breese the depth and strength of the feeling that he 
had for her ; so this midnight quarrel, and the rather im- 
perious way in which Breese had carried himself, and pre- 
si med to speak for Miss Darby, first opened Tom’s eyes 
to facts which had been but dimly seen before. Mr. Tom 
now appreciated, though with different intensity from 
Breese perhaps, that this girl, with whom he had danced 
and sung and ridden, skated and walked and talked, with 
never a thought of what was to come of it all, had made 


404 


HAMMERSMITH: 


for herself such a place in his heart, that he felt singu* 
larly alone and cheerless when he awoke to the sudden 
consciousness that she had been taken away. 

Why, then, did he not go boldly in, and attempt to wrest 
her from the conqueror Breese ? Why did he remain con- 
tented with the somewhat slight evidence that he had of 
their engagement, and not rather plunge in, and ascertain 
the truth for himself, like a true Hammersmith ? Like a 
true Hammersmith, do you say? Out upon it ! You are 
ill acquainted with the Hammersmith character, if you 
hold this an emergency calling for recklessness and im- 
petuosity, headstrong daring, and all the other sturdy 
qualities of the tribe. What, try to wrest from a man a 
prize fairly obtained ! Try to persuade a young woman 
to break her word, change her mind, and transfer her affec- 
tions to a Hammersmith ! It is ridiculous ! A fair field 
and no favor, a race just begun, an up-hill game, any 
equal or vastly unequal conditions of rivalry, and our 
young Hammersmith would be found fighting and con- 
tending with a spirit worthy of his name ; and let the 
best man win, as he would say. But the race already 
run, the game already played, and the prize taken away 
from before his very eyes, before he fully realized that 
there was a rivalry or a contest, even before he had made 
up his mind that he was to enter the lists at all, — why, that 
was a very different matter. If stubborn tooth-and-nail 
perseverance and emulation are marks of the old Ham- 
mersmith stock, none the less so are a cheerful acquies- 
cence and a calm looking in the eyes of Fate, when onco 
the struggle is over, and the day has gone against them. 
I am sure that Hammersmith (Mr. Tom) was in no whit 
behind his most punctilious ancestors in matters of cour- 
age and honor alike. And I am happy to think that he 
had too much regard for himself, if for nobody else, to 
descend to intrigue, or underhanded means, to deprive 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


405 


Breese of the fruits *>f his victory when once they were 
his. 

It was very odd for Hammersmith to reflect, as he did 
not a few times after his quarrel with Breese, that he had 
been preparing a text for himself when he coined that 
advice for Ruddiman about snapping his fingers at the 
whole race of young women. It was very odd for many 
who chose to watch his course, to see the gradual change 
from the enthusiastic, impetuous Hammersmith of several 
months ago, to the young man of increasing cynicism and 
indifferentism, who was taking his place. 

It might not be uninteresting, if space sufficed, and if 
the scrutiny were an agreeable one, to follow the young 
fellow on this new path of his. It might not be uninter- 
esting to follow him as he was trying to accustom him- 
self to the idea that he, Hammersmith, with such an 
opinion of himself as the Hammersmiths were apt to have 
of themselves, had been supplanted by Breese ; a man, — 
well, we will not divulge Hammersmith’s private opinion 
of him in this time of their troubled relations ; a man, at 
any rate, whom he had not looked upon, until now, as 
likely by any possibility to deserve well in the eyes of 
young women, much less to capture the most conspicuous 
of them all, in Mr. Tom’s mind, from out the midst of the 
Cambridge world. 

We might follow Hammersmith as well in the lordly 
disdain which he suddenly acquired for the quiet little 
Cambridge world in question, that had been so kind to 
him since he had chosen to enter its parlors. We might 
show how the spirit of worldliness and a comfortable 
cynicism got possession of him, about this time, in the per- 
son of his uncle the “Duke,” under whose tutelage he 
began more and more to Sequent the grand houses and 
larger area of the metropolis Boston ; how he was trained 
by that master’s hand in many of the maturer mysteries 


m 


HAMMERSMITH: 


of life ; what crushing mobs of parties he frequented ; 
what delightful little theatre-parties, with an after-supper 
and a dance perhaps ; what solemn heavy dinners ; what 
dazzling Germans at Papanti’s, or assemblies at Horticul- 
tural Hall, where his uncle was a patronizing figure- 
head of the most elaborate type ; what a round of calls 
and charming evening visits he made now and then, with 
his beloved Mentor; and how, gradually, he came to 
regard the lesser university town and its smaller routs, its 
less cosmopolitan belles, in a complacent, de Jiaut en has 
manner most interesting to behold in a youngster of his 
remarkable experience. His mirror was quite surrounded 
now with cards of invitation, and summonses to this or that 
grand entertainment, where the pleasure of his company 
was requested. His uncle’s coupe , a most delightful little 
equipage, wherein the old gentleman was wont to take 
his ease while rattling from one gay meeting to another, 
often whirled out to Cambridge late at night, with our 
young swell in a semi-doze on its comfortable cushions, 
smiling benignly over the thought of this or that ravishing 
beauty whom the evening’s festivities had consigned to 
his attentions, and picking up his hat and gloves with a 
start, as he found himself in Harvard Square, before his 
rooms, the driver opening the door, and calling to his 
horses. 

It was so different an experience, so vastly pleasanter a 
mode of life, from any he had tried before ! What a start 
it gave him, though, one evening, — almost the first time 
that his uncle had sent him bowling out thus in his coupe , 
— as he sullenly remembered that it was only two years 
ago (yet how crowded they were with life !) that he had 
been rolling over the same roads in my Lord Tufton’s drag, 
that ingenious diplomate at his side, bound for those earlier 
diversions in town, of which we have had a glimpse ! 
Bah! what a young fool he had been! and what a 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


407 


deal of the world he flattered himself he 'had seen since 
then ! From the very reflection, therefore, that caused 
him this twinge of memory, he drew consolation for him- 
self, and fresh food for the sneering habit that was taking 
possession of him about this time. “By Jove!” he 
would have been likely to say, in a rather languid way for 
a Hammersmith, “I should like to see him try his wiles 
on me now, the scoundrel! I’ve learned a thing or two 
since those greenhorn days ; and I flatter myself that I 
could give him points in a few things where he thought 
himself most uncommonly clever. Bah! what a silly 
episode that was, though ! it makes me sick of life to 
think of it ! ” 

An impressive cynicism in a healthy youngster who 
has been but a year or two from the maternal roof is 
always a charming sight. Your faded gentlemen in club- 
windows, sucking the ends of their canes, and ogling the 
too anxious, bustling world without ; your veterans from 
many a well-fought social field, coddling themselves in 
domestic hospitals ; those who have made a miss of it in 
life ; the hopelessly repressed ; the suddenly blighted ; 
lights that have forgotten to shine ; wits and beauties that 
have lost their homage, — one may pardon the spirit in 
them that would say, “ Go to ! I’ve tried you all, and you 
are nothing but a delusion and a snare, all you bright 
allurements of life ! I’ll none of you ! ” But a youth of 
one and twenty, hearty, healthy, attractive, intelligent (as 
our Hammersmith assuredly was) , — such a spirit in him 
would have been a pitiable spectacle, if we were not con- 
vinced that it would be short lived. It would be too mis- 
erable a theme to dwell upon, if we did not believe that 
sooner or later he would rouse himself, and confess that 
;his was the very silliest period of his life, and this 
cynic’s mask the most unbecoming that a Hammersmith 
outh can put on. 


408 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Why, however, such a listless, indifferent manner as 
Hammersmith took pains to assume for some weeks after 
his Breese quarrel, should find favor with the } T oung of 
both sexes, is hard, very hard to say. I am not preach- 
ing sermons, but attempting a biograph}', as I have sever- 
al times declared ; but I set down here the plain fact, 
which anybody can have noticed, that your young fellow 
who saunters through life as Mr. Tom was now doing, 
walking into your party as if he were a bit doubtful 
whether it was all worth while, taking every thing as a 
matter of course, and repressing as far as possible the 
enthusiasm of which everybody can see that he is capa- 
ble, — that such a young fellow meets with an unbounded 
popularity and reputation for wisdom, which make a live- 
lier, a less blase man open his eyes in wonder. Certain 
it is, at any rate, that this new phase of Hammersmith’s 
character provoked much comment, and brought him no 
small share of fame, linked, as it was, with his known 
ability, and his equally known excursions into the gay 
world of Boston with his uncle. His reputation as a 
man of the world, a dangerous man, a perfect enslaver of 
women, if he chose to exert himself, became prodigious 
among undergraduates ; and the records of his prowess 
were even more ample, more visionary, and more .flatter- 
ing, than those earlier legends during the Tufton regime. 

You may be pretty sure, too, that the matter was quite 
fully discussed in the outer Cambridge world, and that 
exclusively feminine gatherings seized upon it as a deli- 
cious bit of contemporary history. And those little sew- 
ing-bees and reading-clubs, four-hand musical seances 
and water- color mornings, were made lively and interest- 
ing beyond technical limits by the pros and cons of the 
great question, whether Hammersmith was more delight- 
ful and thoroughly charming now or then; now as & 
rather listless saunterer ; then as the enthusiastic Ham* 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


409 


mersmith of his junior year, — this, of course, along with 
other great questions of the day, which kept abreast of 
the literary, or musical, or artistic frenzy of the moment. 

“Tom, my boy,” said his uncle one evening, as they 
were sitting in the “ Duke’s ” grand apartments in town, 
“this is all very well, — this feasting and dancing, and 
so on. I had my own idea in drawing you into it ; and 
I’m happy to see that you enjoy it, and are yourself a suc- 
cess, — yes, yes, you are ! Don’t deny it. I’m happy to 
think you’re making such good friends, I say. Gad, sir, 
why shouldn’t a man have a plenty of stanch friends, 
with good balances at their bankers, on whom he may call 
in the time of need? ” 

“ But I never should,” urged Tom the innocent. 

“ No, no, of course not. Let us hope not, at any rate. 
But it’s a deused comfortable thing to think of, to have 
such a list of nabobs at your command as Minturn and 
Tappington, Lambrekin and Bludsoe, — though Blud- 
soe, bah ! I hear he’s going under, poor fellow ! Too 
much splurge, too many horses, silly wife driving him 
crazy, girls that must have Worth trumpery, — the same 
old story, my boy. And I’ve been thinking, — I’ve been 
thinking a great deal about you, my young man, and 
I’ve made up m} T mind you ought to settle down as soon 
as you leave college. You ought to settle, sir, and get to 
work at once, and — well, I might as well put it as it has 
occurred to me, Tom ; I’m a blunt old fellow, you know 
— you ought to be looking about — for a — you ought 
to be thinking of getting married.” 

“ Oh, nonsense ! ” said Tom. “ Excuse me ; but I beg 
to differ from you. I shall never marry.” 

“What, my boy! Never marry! Come, come! A 
youngster has a notion of that sort once or twice in his 
life, I know quite well ; but it passes away when spring 
vomes round, as a rule, unless — you don « mean to say 


410 


HAMMERSMITH : 


— you know the French judge, whenever a criminal was 
brought before him, invariably asked, 1 Who is she ? ’ — • 
you haven’t been hit, Tom ? Boggle affair left its mark ? ’ ’ 

“ Not at all, not at all,” said Tom. “ That was too 
silly to affect anybody, too unutterably silly! But 1 
never shall, uncle, I never shall. I don’t think it pays.” 

“ Well, I’m glad you’ve no more serious objection. I 
was afraid some of your Cambridge sirens had been sing- 
ing to you from the off shore ; ” and the uncle eyed Tom 
narrowly. 

“ Oh, bless you, no ! ” returned Tom, putting his chin 
in air. 

“ Gad, sir, but I shouldn’t have blamed you! Most 
uncommon nice girls you have out there, most uncommon 
clever as well. There was a time — Miss Darby, you 
know. Well, I didn’t know but that you and she had an 
understanding of some sort.” 

“ Miss Darby ! Jove, no ! ” answered Tom. “ Didn’t 
you know she was engaged to Breese? ” 

“Breese! Miss Darby! Good gad, no! Vraiment? 
Perhaps he’s cut you out, you young rascal ! No ? Well, 
a good thing, a good thing for Breese. Uncommon clever 
fellow, make his mark some day, and deused sweet, charm- 
ing girl, but Darby exchequer a trifle low, eh? — a trifle 
low. Gad, sir ! why shouldn’t a fellow capture a young 
woman that can bring him a good pot of money, eh? 
Gad ! it’s no more trouble to fall in love with a rich girl 
than a poor one.” 

“ But, good gracious, uncle ! you seem to consider that 
a man can regulate the matter for himself, — fall in love, 
as you say, at command. So much money, so much love. 
That’s not my idea of the matter, I assure you, uncle. 
If I ever do marry, — which I greatly doubt, — it will be 
from no such consideration as that you suggest, you can 
lepend upon it ! ” 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


411 


“ Oil ! well, love and a cottage is all very sweet to think 
about ; cosey little time, snug little rooms, — deused 
snug! — and. all that. But I tell you that it’s no more 
trouble to run a fine establishment than a little box of a 
hut in the suburbs, if you’ve only the sinews of war ; and 
it’s a deused sight more comfortable ! Gad, man, why 
shouldn’t you have the sinews of war?” And the old 
gentleman, in evening-dress, smoothed a pair of white 
gloves upon the centre-table, and threw himself back in 
an arm-chair. “ Why shouldn’t you have a fine establish- 
ment some day, and keep up the old Hammersmith name? 
We’ve been a wandering set for. the last generation or so ; 
and, gad ! I’d like to see the old family taking its place 
again, and making its mark in the world. You’ll have a 
pretty little fortune of your own in a few months, — no 
thanks to you ! — and with care and economy, and such 
an arrangement as I propose, there’s no limit to the ambi- 
tion that you might set for yourself: you could do any 
thing you chose, my boy.” 

“ What arrangement do you speak of?” asked Tom 
carelessly, yet not averse, in his present ’frame of mind, 
to see what plan his fond uncle might have been devising 
in his worldly old brain. 

“ What do you say to Miss — you must have found — 
charming girl, such sweet manners ! — what do j t ou say to 
Miss Malachite ? ” asked the uncle. 

‘ ‘ Charming enough, but a most confounded little flirt ! 
that’s all,” answered Tom. 

“ Ah, but that will wear off, that will wear off,” said 
the uncle, “ like the radicalism of your friend Breese, or 
the various penchants of certain very estimable young 
gentlemen that I might mention,” he added, with a 
knowing look at Tom. “ Gad, but you young fellows are 
not fond of being put in strait-jackets, I believe ! You 
must have your fling out before you settle down. Would 


HAMMERSMITH : 


412 

you deny a clever, lively young woman the right to the 
homage and the devotion, yes, dammy, and the destruc- 
tion (it’s no more than fair), that follow in her train? It 
always takes two to make a foolish bargain, you must have 
observed.” And the uncle many times reverted to this 
rather mercenary subject of his, impressing his views with 
all manner of worldly arguments, that were quite novel to 
Mr. Tom. 

On one occasion, indeed, Mr. Gayton broke out, in a 
wild, sad sort of way, with an account of his own cheer- 
less condition in his old age. “ A worthless old beggar, 
Tom, a worthless old beggar ! ” he said, “ whom nobody 
cares about, nobody loves ; shunted about from one cor- 
ner of the world to another ; feasted and toasted now and 
then by some reminiscent friend, to be sure, who is happy 
with his wife and his youngsters, but no account, no 
account, Tom! Gad, how lonely I &m, — how lonely! 
Take warning from me, — a miserable old fellow who 
might have had quite a different life, if I’d had somebody 
to talk to me at your age.” And instinctively his hand 
travelled to his forehead, in the neighborhood of the scar, 
which was growing fainter with age ; and Tom felt again 
like asking him for its history. But his uncle looked such 
a picture of dejection, as he lay sunk back in his chair, 
gazing into the fire, that Tom dared not allude to what 
he felt must be a tender subject, and, instead, did what he 
could, in a young man’s way, to comfort and cheer the old 
worldling. 

Many such conversations made no appreciable impres- 
sion on Mr. Tom, except, perhaps, to draw his mind more 
away from Cambridge, and to plant a few worldly weeds 
within it. Mr. Gayton, though he was a bit chagrined 
that his nephew did not readily fall into his plans and 
mode of thinking, was not displeased, withal, to find that 
he was an orthodox Hammersmith } T oungster, bound to 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


413 


have his own way, and fight his battles unaided, even if 
they left him covered with scars such as marked his own 
aged forehead. 

Such blunt references as the uncle’s, however, could not 
fail to pique Tom’s curiosity keenly as to the attractions 
of the Miss Malachite alluded to, as well as to make him 
weigh more carefully than he had ever weighed before the 
comparative and distinctive pleasure that the society of a 
girl like Miss Malachite, and a girl like Miss Darby, gave 
him. We are not concerned in watching the balances in 
this rather Breesian operation. We may know, however, 
that one result of the inquiry was a most turbulent state 
of mind in our fluctuating Ruddiman, — somewhere near 
the middle of the winter, — when he beheld Mr. Tom 
devoting himself with unusual perseverance to Miss Mala- 
chite on the evening of a great dinner at the Lambrekins’ ; 
taking her in to dinner (not that he was to blame for 
that), sitting in absorbed tete-a-tet ^ with her afterwards, 
while the music was going on, and, as Ruddiman very 
much feared, making fun at somebody’s expense. At 
whose expense he did not trust himself to think ; but he 
was- painfully aware that several mischievous glances were 
directed to his quarter as he sat dumb with a Miss May- 
flower in a corner ; and he was quite sure that he had 
heard his own name mentioned just before a light burst 
of laughter from Mr. Tom and Miss Malachite. 

Ruddiman had strong thoughts of calling Hammersmith 
to account for it, in fact, and did actually summon cour- 
age, several days afterwards, to suggest to him, with con- 
siderable emphasis of sarcasm, that he thought, for a man 
that professed to ignore the whole female sex, Hammer- 
smith was making himself “ most deused devoted” to a 
certain young lady whom he need not mention. Tom had 
laughed it ofl 1 , and pooh-poohed the idea of Miss Mala- 
chite’s taking his devotion for any thing serious. But 


414 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Ruddiman didn’t know : Tom was a most dangerous 
fellow to have about one’s young lady friends. And this 
aspect of the Ruddiman-Hammersmith-Malachite question 
was not slow in finding its way to Cambridge and its 
numerous gatherings, you may rest assured. The partic- 
ular medium by which this gossip reached Cambridge, no 
one can doubt ; only, as Hammersmith was now a party 
to the case, it chanced that poor Goldie, “ working like a 
horse,” as he expressed it, for a commencement part, was 
selected for the repository of the overflowing Ruddiman’ s 
secrets and griefs. This was a relief, an infinite relief, to 
Hammersmith, and yet eventually a cause of trouble ; for 
Goldie, best of fellows to be sure, was yet extremely 
friendly and gossipy with his cousin Miss Darby ; and 
Ruddiman’ s desperation was too unprecedented and 
laughable for Goldie to keep altogether to himself. 

Many weeks had passed since the quarrel of Breese and 
Hammersmith ; during which the two had not spoken, and 
had but rarely met, — in class lectures occasionally, and at 
the Cambridge parties at which Mr. Tom condescended 
now and then to look in. There was nothing in the attitude 
of Miss Darby and Breese, so far as Tom could discover, 
to confute the report of their engagement that had gained 
currency. If Breese did not have as monopolizing and 
devoted a manner as several weeks ago, what of that? 
Once a man is engaged, who expects him to be fluttering 
and hovering as eagerly as though he were not sure of his 
prize? If Breese’s class-work was not quite so accurate 
as before, and his articles in u The Harvard Magazine,” of 
which he was an editor, were not quite so numerous, why, 
how could you expect it of a man in love? Ruddiman 
could have explained it to your satisfaction, — Ruddiman, 
whose literary work was of quite another character, as we 
shall see. 

Several weeks had passed. Goldie was working like 9 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


415 


Trojan, as has been said. Hammersmith, in spite of the 
languishing air, quite new to him, was doing bettei work 
than ever since his freshman year. Breese and Albemarle 
and the rest, who were certain of their commencement parts, 
were working well, to be sure, but by no means so hard 
as a body of men, not mentioned in these pages, who were 
fired by the new order allowing commencement parts to 
be obtained on senior work alone. These men were work- 
ing with all the vim which comes of long rest and athletic 
lives ; and their example was so infectious, that there was 
hardly a man in the class who did not feel its force, and 
rouse himself to make his senior work more creditable 
than any that had gone before. 

Ruddiman continued to hurl, and Waddle to dodge, as 
of yore. But the squat menial now and then stole a march 
on his lord, and crept quietly in and out with a pair of 
shoes, without so much as being observed, while the little 
man sat gloomily in his bed, a pipe in his mouth, but now 
often with paper and pencil in his lap — doing what ? If 
you are remarkably curious to know, and will look into the 
numbers of “ The Harvard Magazine ” that were current 
at the time, you will see various slender poems, mostly of 
an erotic or a settled melancholy style, with the simple sig- 
nature “R.” They are not pretentious : they are merely 
spontaneous gushings, unavoidable overflows, from the 
great Ruddiman heart, — “ The False Fair One,” “ Ad 
Ministram ,” “ The Heart that is always True ” (this of 
his own organ), “To a Flirt,” and many others, which 
appeared month after month in the proper place, alongside 
of trenchant leaders by Breese, heavy disquisitions by 
Albemarle, and lively epics by Trimble, who had the light- 
est touch in verse of any man in college. Heaven only 
knows how many more went to swell the pile of rejected 
manuscript in the sanctum of the editors, and were 
handed about and laughed over by those severe officials in 


416 


HAMMERSMITH : 


their moments of levity. How gloomy, how misanthropic^ 
how wildly desperate, they were ! — copied and paraphrased 
so carefully from the whole range of literature, ancient 
and modern. “Every clever man, such as Leibnitz or 
Kant for instance, must have written verses in his youth,” 
says Jean Paul ; and if every clever man, then, of course, 
every Ruddiman ! What tender versicles they were, when 
they chose to be tender ! But, as Hood says, writing on 
a certain baby, “ I cannot write any more on him, he is 
so soft, and I have only steel pens.” 

It was while Hammersmith was in the frame of mind 
imperfectly outlined above, that the all-important class- 
elections came on, and the various societies, secret and 
open, marshalled their forces, and prepared to make a 
sharp fight over the distribution of the spoils of war. 
There had been button-holing and canvassing, secret meet- 
ings and forming of “ slates,” and all the preliminary 
pulling of wires, of which Americans are fond, for many 
weeks now. Men had been begged to consent to run for 
this office, societies to allow this name to go on a ticket. 
The records of candidates were scrutinized as carefully as 
if the elections were to decide the government of the uni- 
verse for an entire century ; and Mr. Tom, for his part, 
was thoroughly disgusted with the thought of all the 
subterfuge and undue rivalry, the jealousy' and the proba- 
ble enmity. His peculiar condition of mind at this time, 
his diminished interest in the petty wrangles of college- 
life, and his more frequent absence in Boston, tended to 
this feeling of disgust. 

It was quite natural, therefore, that, when the meeting 
for the elections came off, he should saunter, with the rest, 
into Holden Chapel, after supper, and expect nothing but 
a long evening of bargain and sale, crimination and re- 
crimination. He was not disappointed. 

The secret societies, which have not, to be sure, such 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


417 


prominent publicity, or such flamboyant insignia, as at 
other colleges, are capable of wielding great power at 
such a time. Great power ! — one would say that a con- 
gress of nations was in progress, and that the talk was of 
some vast and earth-shaking combination, instead of a 
friendly meeting of youth to elect their officers for class- 
day, the seniors’ day of farewell. I must look at it all 
from the young man’s stand, I own, and must admit the 
fact, that the secret societies, the Pudding, the O. K., with 
a numerous body of men called “The Outs,” had spent 
a large part of the evening in excited discussion of plans 
for distribution of the offices, of compromises to please all 
parties, and in fiery speeches onty kept within due bounds 
by the extremest exercise of power by the chairman, Al- 
bemarle, when suddenly Hammersmith stood up on a back 
seat, and called out, — 

“Mr. Chairman.” 

Men were talking, shouting, moving about, making 
motions, after the manner of the national House of Rep- 
resentatives on a field-night. But at last Albemarle rec- 
ognized Mr. Tom, rapped with his gavel, and called out, — 

“ Mr. Hammersmith. Gentlemen will be kind enough tc 
preserve order. We shall never be able to finish business, 
if quiet is not maintained. Mr. Hammersmith has the 
floor.” 

“ Mr. Chairman and gentlemen,” began Hammersmith, 
“I’ve been sitting here a couple of hours now, listening 
to what’s been said, and trying to see some way out of 
the snarl that we’ve gotten into. I want to sa} r , in the 
first place, that I am not a candidate for any office, and 
I haven’t been a party to any of the schemes that have 
been on foot to secure offices for this or that society. 
Having said this, I am more free to put what I have to 
say to this meeting. 

“ Everybody present knows, I suppose, how universal 


418 


HAMMERSMITH : 


this custom of canvassing for offices has become here in 
Cambridge, in the middle of senior year* and how a 
whole class is cut up into sets and parties by this squab- 
ble after a few beggarly honors that are hold to be verj 
important for a few weeks, and then are past and gone. 
Everybody knows all this, and knows how, for weeks now, 
men have been rushing about like maniacs, pledging other 
fellows, and getting their votes, bargaining this office for 
that, pitching into this man, and cracking up that, and 
doing all they can to set us all by the ears, and make our 
last few months here as much of a hot-bed as possible. 
If anybody doubts this, let him reflect on what has been 
going on in this chapel for the last two hours, and consid- 
er if the turmoil and bitterness will not be vastly greater 
before we are through, if we go on in the old way. 

u Now, I say all this is wrong. I am a Pudding man, 
and I’m glad of it ! I have a good many friends in the 
club ; and I think we have some suitable men for the 
class offices. You are O. K. men, some of you ; and you 
are doubtless glad of it : you think of your own club and 
men as I do of mine, and it is very natural. But I don’t 
think it is right, I don’t think it is right at all, for the 
Pudding, or the O. K., or any other society, to gobble all 
the offices, or divide them up among them to suit them- 
selves. It is making unpleasant feeling ; it is not fair to 
the large body of outsiders ; and what is the use of all 
this quarrelling? There are men enough, good enough 
men, in the class to fill all the offices ; and a man isn’t 
any better because he happens to belong to a society, and 
has a badge hanging up in his room ; not a bit of it. 
We are all classmates ; and I tell you right here, that b 
this squabble goes on, and one party or the other forces 
.Is ticket through, it will make a state of things that we 
shall all regret most emphatically ; and none more so than 
the men who have been engineering these different jobs, — 


HTS HARVARD DAYS. 


419 


or else I don’t know what I’m talking about : and I think 
Ido. 

“Now, what do I propose? I move, Mr. Chairman, 
that the sense of this meeting be recorded as against any 
combinations, or slates, or any thing of the kind ; and I 
move further that a direct ballot be taken at once for 
every officer in turn.” 

“ You can only make one motion at a time, Mr. Ilam* 
mersmith,” said Albemarle. 

“ Then I move, sir, to simplify matters, that this meet- 
ing proceed at once to ballot for the officers of class day 
seriatim , in the order to be designated by the Chair.” 
And Hammersmith sat down. 

Harvard men are not especially inflammable. They 
are not apt to be carried away by a clever speech or a 
brilliant sally. They retain enough of the old colonial 
spirit of controversy and debate never to give their assent 
to a proposition, unless their judgment shall approve. 
They are certainly not as fickle as the French, of whom 
Pierre d’Avity wrote in 1615, “They are easy; and a 
witty fellow is able to mutine a thousand.” But equally 
certain it is, that almost before the chairman could put 
the question, and a great answering “ Ay ” had gone up, 
the straightforward words of Hammersmith, — sufficient 
yet not personal, earnest yet not bitter, — and the sight 
of the young fellow who had served his college so well at 
Worcester, standing there, and counselling what a vast 
number felt, but dared not say, had had their effect. 

Before he had concluded, there was a buzz among the 
groups of men. When the “Ays” had been shouted, 
and a few scattering “ Noes ” had only served to raise a 
laugh, a man jumped up, Thorpe, who had been the can- 
didate of the O. K. and others for the office of chief mar- 
shal. Cries of “Hammersmith, Hammersmith!” came 
from several pai ts of the meeting; and Thorpe, securing 


120 


HAMMERSMITH : 


the floor, moved that Hammersmith be declared the 
choice of the class for chief marshal by acclamation. 
“No, no!” came feebly from a far corner. Hammer- 
smith rose, and protested that he should not serve, if 
elected, after what he had said ; but the chairman put the 
motion. Such a tremendous booming chorus of “Ays” 
was given, that not a single man dared open his mouth 
to say “No” when the time came. So at last, despite 
many protestations on Hammersmith’s part, — who in- 
sisted that he would be subject to gross misconstruction 
if he allowed himself to accept the office after his speech 
of the evening, — he at last gave way to the solicitations 
of the earnest fellows who crowded about him, and ac- 
cepted the honor with many thanks. 

Thorpe had been especially urgent that he should ac- 
cept, — a manly, studious fellow, on the pattern of Breese, 
though with much more popular traits. Freemantle, the 
regular Pudding candidate for the post, seeing how things 
were going, came and begged Tom to accept ; but he had 
made himself so obnoxious to the majority of the class 
before this evening by his partisan efforts and personal 
ambition, that this tardy action did not save him. He 
not only lost the place of marshal, either first, second, or 
third, but when, later in the evening, he was put upon the 
class-day committee, with Pinckney as chairman, he felt 
the snub so keenly, that he rose, declined the honor posi- 
tively, and left the meeting in dudgeon, as disappointed 
a man as ever a confident candidate for a high office could 
be. Poor Freemantle ! 

The ice was broken. The good beginning inaugurated 
by Hammersmith’s speech, and his choice by acclamation, 
vas followed up by the meeting ; and all the bitterness of 
-pirit that might have run through the whole class wau 
confined to a few unhappy self-seekers, like Freemantle 
who perhaps deserved their lot. Breese was elected ora- 


HIS harvard days. 


421 


tor after a close ballot with Albemarle ; Trimble was the 
only man thought of for poet ; Thorpe and Goldie were 
added to the list of marshals ; Albemarle was elected 
chairman of the class committee ; Pinckney, of the class- 
day committee, as has been said ; and a good feeling pre- 
vailed at the close of the meeting, and ever afterward 
during the months that the men were together as a class, 
which was in striking contrast to the feuds and rankling 
too commonly engendered by such meetings, — a good 
feeling, which, I trust, is still the rule, and not the excep- 
tion, after class elections, and all other meetings of the 
student bcdy politic and body athletic. 


422 


HAMMERSMITH : 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

A GALLOP FOR A SENORITA. 

“ A good rider on a good horse is as much above himself and others as ths 
World can make him.” — Lord Herbert of Cherbury. 

S EVERAL weeks had passed in the second term of 
senior year. Hammersmith’s cynic spirit had given 
way almost completely before the pleasant excitement 
attending the reception of his name at the late class 
elections. He seemed to be gliding back into his old 
enthusiastic self. The honor paid him by his classmates, 
their devoted attachment to their chief marshal, his short 
but merry Christmas visit at home, on which Goldie ac- 
companied him, — many things conspired to produce this 
old-time cheerful mood. And not the least factor in this 
happy result was the following graphic letter from Pen- 
hallow the rover, which came to him one day in spring, 
and produced no little excitement in the quadrangle, when 
its news was made known : — 

Santa Barbara, Cab., Feb. 25, 186-. 

My dear old Tom, — Why am I here ? Why have I left the 
company of the much-bleating and the homy? Why have I 
eloped from Simmons? Listen, and I will tell you as briefly as 
possible. 

I have told you several times of the Machado girl, Senorita 
Guadalupe Machado, of the ranch over the hills from Simmons’s 
camp, you remember. Well, last Tuesday came a mounted Mexi- 
can to us lying in hammocks, and reading of you poo * idiots 
snowed up in Cambridge and Boston. Would the Senor and his 
friend honor the Don Pedro Machado by attending at a fandangc 


HIS H.XRVAUD DAYS. 


423 


and general powwow in honor of his beloved daughter’s ap- 
proaching nuptials with the young Don Jos6 Maria Lugo de Val- 
lejo, recently from the pure-blooded Castilians of Spain? Of 
course the Senor and his friend were only too happy, and tried to 
put on as many airs in accepting the polite invitation as the red- 
sashed centaur had assumed in delivering it. We didn’t know at 
the time what a figure this much-bearded messenger was to cut 
in the near future, cutting into more biographies than one. 

We accepted, we went, bedizened in our most carefully pre- 
served of Van Nason’s finery, and hoping to eclipse the local 
Spanish youth, and fire the too hasty Senorita with regretful long- 
ing, by reason of the exceeding gorgeousness of our get-up. I 
need not say that we failed ignominiously in this attempt ; for who 
could shine beside the handsome young Don I — fiery as to his eye, 
graceful and impetuous as to his manners, liquid as to his beauti- 
ful tenor voice, nimble-footed in the dance, light of touch at the 
seductive guitar, destructive (beyond New-England standards, my 
boy) with his low voice, his tender glances, and absorbing style of 
devotion ; a magnificent horseman, moreover, as you shall hear. 

Nor need I say that the fandango was a success; and that 
when, far in the night, the large company (made up of representa- 
tives from the De la Guerras, Figueroas, Carrillos, Micheltorrenas, 
Del Valles, and other swell families of this lower country) toddled 
off to their respective “ downies,” the ample quarters of Don Pedro 
were taxed to their utmost, and everybody was full of expectation 
for the elaborate wedding to come off at noon of the next day.- 
Simmons and I, I know, fell off to sleep while chaffing each other 
on the subject of matrimony, and speculating if Spanish weddings 
allowed to invited guests any of those sweet perquisites that 
plucky ushers and groomsmen are wont to seize in the east. But 
we did not know what was in store for the next day. 

At early dawn a terrific scream wakened the whole house- 
hold, scattered about in the rambling adobe building. People 
were rushing about in the court-yard ; horses were being fetched 
from the corrals; men were saddling and mounting, women 
screaming. A knock at our door. Will the Senor and his 
friend be pleased to come forth and aid in the search? for the 
beautiful Senorita Guadalupe is gone! — gone quien sdbe, nobody 
knows where; and Don Jos6 Maria, her lover, is beside himself 
with grief. Gone in the dead of night, nobody knows when. 
There are fresh horse-tracks outside the court-yard. The Seno- 
vita’s door is aj ir; her Mexican maid, astir early on this festal 


424 


HAMMERSMITH : 


morning, liad entered, wondering at the open door, and found hei 
gone. Hence the scream, hence the excitement. 

No clew, no clew for several hours, during which a hundred 
(no, I’ll say fifty) men, young and old, were scouring the country 
in every direction, examining trails, ascending hill-peaks., looking 
for tracks. At last came a man, riding as only a Spaniard can 
ride, tearing up the valley from the direction of Ventura, — San 
Buena- Ventura, Ventura for short. 

Who? What news? The messenger Juan, returning from a 
sheep-camp down the valley in the gray of morning ; two horses, 
seen in the dim light, — two horses and three riders, galloping 
fiercely westward down the valley. Three horsemen? Si Senor. 
Espanoles f Si Senor, but one a woman ; and he produced a hand- 
kerchief picked up on the road. The young Don snatched it from 
his hand, examined it, touched it quickly to his lips, and, with a 
“ gracias d Dios,” thrust it into his bosom, and tightened his 
pistol-belt. 

Thus much for a clew, but many precious hours lost. Present- 
ly the young Don, a Machado, Juan, and myself, were mounted, 
and spurring down the valley. Simmons gave way to me, press- 
ing me to mount his horse in place of mine ; but my little Diablo 
had stood me so well, that I would not dishonor him by leaving 
him behind now, when there was possible glory ahead. Juan had 
rushed to a corral, turned loose his tired beast, caught and 
mounted another — a vicious-looking gray, blind of one eye — in 
quicker time than it takes me to tell of it. We four, with pistols 
at our belts, riding lightly, went careering down the valley. 

No word was spoken. The men seemed to know every trail, 
every ford, every landmark. Their eyes were everywhere : they 
noted every sign in the road on which we were galloping. But 
there was no need of especial caution; for here were the plain 
narks of two galloping horses, one of which had been shod only 
on the fore-feet, and, having lost one of those shoes, had left a 
sign, not easily mistaken, wherever he went. 

Five miles, and Juan says, “ Aqui, Senor,” pointing to some 
trees on the right; and explains that from there he saw the flying 
horsemen early in the morning. Heavens, how much time has 
been lost ! 

Trails lead off here and there over the side-hills. They are care- 
fully examined; and once Juan gives a great grunt of satisfactioa 
as he sees the horse-tracks leading into a certain trail. He speaks 
(the young Don interprets to me) as we take up this trail: “Muy 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


425 


bueno. No chance to escape, if they have taken this trail. Land- 
slide in mountains blocked up trail. Catch them surely, if they've 
gone this way.” But, as he finished talking, Juan sheered sud- 
denly to the left, with another grunt. The villains had turned 
off here for a mere blind, leaving the new trail on a bit of rocky 
ground, and returning to the valley-road lower down. Cunning 
flight this: equally cunning pursuit; Juan, Argus-eyed. 

More trails, more blinds, much valuable time lost. 

Ten miles. Horses breathing very hard. The Don’s glorious 
black, without a white spot on him, save a star in his forehead, 
Machado’s sorrel, Juan’s ugly gray, my little roan, are dropping 
foam from their mouths as they run. We dismount by a creek, 
throw our saddles on the ground, give our beasts a mouthful of 
water, walk them up and down for five minutes, saddle, are up 
and away. Not much mercy for horseflesh have these Spaniards. 
Why should they have in a chase like this, with fresh horses at 
Ventura, twenty miles ahead, and a beautiful girl being whisked 
away from her lover? 

By Jove, how I pitied the young Don, riding with his lips 
pressed firmly, his eyes strained ahead on the road, spurs now and 
then plunged strongly into the sides of his horse! It was a 
glorious sight. He looked as handsome as a picture ; but it was 
a cruel suspense for him. 

Santa Paula Cafion. Can they have fled up its steep road, and 
issued into the Ojai Valley above ? Another blind, another quar- 
ter of an hour lost. Several roads diverging to the left as the 
valley comes to an end. Several roads leading out upon the broad 
Colonia Rancho. 

No, they have kept straight on. There are the single-shod 
horse and his unshod mate, their signatures distinct in the sand 
and gravel. There is but one road for them now : they are mak- 
ing for Ventura. 

But it is cruel riding. The sun is hot; the horses are dripping 
wet. They look haggard and worn already, with their twenty- 
mile jump. Can they last till Ventura, ten miles away? A 
breeze meets us as we mount a little eminence, and sight Ven- 
tura, now seven miles off. Our beasts feel it: they are crowded 
into a sharper pace. We lift our hats, and cool our heads with its 
breath. 

Many tracks as we enter Ventuia. No sign of the single-shod 
horse. Nobody has seen the flying horsemen: where can they 
have gone? The beach! And Juan and Machado dash towards 


426 


HAMMERSMITH : 


the ocean, abreast of the little town, and are back in a few mo 
ments. Yes, tracks on the beach, — the single-shod, the unshod. 
They have avoided the town, and wisely. 

Our horses, ourselves, must have rest. Thirty miles or more 
from the start, and hardly a drawing of the rein ! But not much 
rest. 

We dash up to the Figueroas’, cousins of the Machados. Wo 
turn loo«e our horses : they are washed down ; buckets of water are 
thrown over the saddle-marks. We throw ourselves into chairs, 
all except the young Don, who paces the floor, his eyes flashing 
with excitement. 

A half-hour, three-quarters; we must go. I must have a i.ew 
horse. A fiery, long-bodied beast, reddish-sorrel, with cream- col- 
ored mane and tail, is caught up for me. They call him a palomino, 
from his color; a restless, forever-prancing animal; no easy matter 
to ride him. 

Away, across the Yentura River, around the headland, and a 
road of thirty miles, — half on the beach, half skirting it — stretches 
away to Santa Barbara, whose mission we already see against the 
sky. 

We are on the beach, following the tracks. The waves have 
come up, and washed them away in places. The sun is setting. 
The Santa Barbara Islands, twenty miles away, though seeming 
but five, are covered with purple mist. The surf is breaking on 
our left : our horses start with a snort as the sharp reports come. 
There has been a storm at sea. The steep mountains on our right, 
leaving only a narrow ledge for the road and a few scattered farms, 
are bright with sunset: where canons cut into them, they are pur- 
ple and sombre in shadow. 

We ride still without a word. My fresh horse plunges and cara- 
coles with excitement: he dashes ahead of the rest, he comes 
down stiff-legged. But I am not the greenhorn that I was six 
months ago. 

Ha! the smoke of a small steamer on the southern horizon, 
steaming for Santa Barbara ! Don Jose looks anxiously at it. The 
flight of the villains is well timed. If they can reach the town, and 
take passage on this steamer, who knows where they may go? 

But can they? Shall we allow them? I tell you, Tom, it was 
worth a whole lifetime to be riding along the beach that day, with 
those three fellows, never saying a word, but riding as if their lives 
depended on it; the young Don glancing over his shoulder at the 
approaching steamer, all three leaning forward lightly in their sad 


HTS HARVARD DAYS. 


427 


dies and riding like centaurs ! I never knew any tiling like it 
before : I never expect to know any thing like it again. 

Five miles out, and we stop and cinch up. Steamer or no 
steamer, we must not kill our horses, or be left on the sand from 

shifting cinch. We dismount, and throw off our saddles again. 
1 1 was a picturesque sight, as the men were walking their animals 
up and down the beach, — the sea and the streaming sunset be- 
hind them, this white floor at their feet, their horses, with drooped 
heads and heaving sides, walking by them. 

Up and away again, riding with fresh energy, your humble ser- 
vant beginning to feel that he cannot last many hours at this pace, 
and wishing that his palomino would not dance quite so much. 
But I would have died before I would have given up, Tom, though 
I began to feel very light about the head, and sore all over. With- 
out the light meal at the Figueroas’, I would have been off my 
horse long ago. It is terribly wearing, this continual gallop! 

I felt as you say you did, when you were saving Miss Darby iu 
Fresh Pond, you know, Tom. I was bound to hold on till I 
dropped off ; and, when I thought of you fellows, I tell you I felt 
freshened up amazingly, and as good as any of them. How I 
thought of you, my dear Tom ! And how you would have enjoyed 
being with us ! The sun is down, and the short California twilight 
merging into darkness. 

We have passed several headlands. Don Vallejo looks inquir- 
ingly at me. I suppose I looked pretty well used up, but I an- 
swered, as cheerfully as possible, that I was good for fifty miles 
yet. But, Lord, how I lied ! And if I was tired, how much more 
so must be that delicate Sehorita, bound to her horse, and being 
driven roughly all this way to — what ? Some such idea seemed 
to pass through the young Don’s head and mine at once, as he 
looked at me and I answered his look; for he smiled, — oh, such 
a sad, unhappy smile! — and dug his spurs into his horse: we fol- 
lowed him at a keener jump. 

It was quite dark, we could no longer distinguish the horse- 
tracks, the smoke of the steamer was entirely out of sight, when 
we dashed up to the little stage-station at a place called Rincon. 
A man came running towards us as we neared the low house. We 
pulled our pistols; and Juan was on the point of firing, when the 
man raised his hand, and we found him to be the stage-man in 
charge, McCloskey by name. 

He spoke hurriedly in Spanish. Juan plunged his spurs into 
his horse, and was forging ahead, whet Don Jds6 called him back. 


m 


HAMMERSMITH : 


A few words to his men, which I did not catch, and the young 
Don led the way cautiously around the point on horseback, we 
following him. Not a hundred paces, and we dash ahead, as 
fast as our horses will carry us, towards the spot where a light 
smoke is rising. 

They are there, — one man leading a horse to the creek, another 
binding a woman to her saddle : they are just about to leave. 

We almost trample them under foot. Juan’s pistol is out, and 
his bullet doing its work with the man by the Senorita, in quicker 
time than it takes to describe it, vjhile the other rascal falls on his 
knees, and bellows for mercy. 

It was all done so quickly that it seemed like a flash, and I 
never shall forget, as long as I live, the tableau that the whole 
scene made, as Machado and I returned to the group, after cap- 
turing the bellowing fellow, — Juan, great shaggy Juan, with a red 
handkerchief binding his forehead, and his big sombrero pushed 
back on his head, standing by his gray horse, and looking down 
upon the man dead at his feet (he must have died instantly) ; the 
young Don and the Senorita in each other’s arms ; the Don’s black 
horse, flecked with foam, standing with drooped head almost over 
the two ; and the mounting fire throwing a glow over the whole, 
emphasizing bits of color here and there, lighting up as well the 
crouching prisoner in our hands; with Machado, my handsome 
young companion, and our own horses following us. 

I tell you it was something for a man to remember for a life- 
time, Tom; and I had to think very hard to believe myself the 
same fellow that used to peg about Milton and Cambridge in 
such a civilized way, never dreaming that a little bit of the fif- 
teenth century was to drop down before me some day. 

But if this all seemed wonderful, and seems a little apocryphal 
to you, (I believe that’s the word, eh?) imagine my surprise, my 
perfect horror-stricken surprise, when I went forward to look at 
the man dead at the feet of Juan, and found it was — Tufton! 

Tom, I felt as weak as a cat when I saw him. I turned pale, I 
must have turned pale ; I know I started back a step; and Juan 
uttered a grunt of wonder or surprise. 

“You know him? ” asked the Don. 

“ No, yes,” I answered; and Juan, who knew enough English 
to understand what was said, uttered another suspicious grunt, 
and eyed me narrowly; the Don, too, did not appear to appreciate 
the fact of my being at all acquainted with the villain who had 
run away with his fiancee, and whom we had been chasing all 
day over the plains and shore. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


429 


I didn’t like the situation, I assure you. What was I to say? 
How were they likely to receive what I had said? How were they 
likely to look upon me, who had confessed that I knew the man 
lying dead in his own blood? 

There was nothing else to be done. I explained to the young 
Don, in as few words as possible, that I had known Tufton in the 
east, at college (the Don smiled) ; that he had cruelly injured a 
dear friend of mine (that’s you, old boy); had fled in very much 
the same way as this, and that I had quite unexpectedly come 
across him again in Los Angeles. The Don received it with the 
politest attention, apologized for seeming to notice the fact of my 
showing surprise at the sight of the man, and explained my words 
to the rest ; J uan answering with his usual grunt and mutter, the 
Senorita putting out her small hand to me, and saying in the 
sweetest voice that I ever heard, Tom, “ Mil gracias , Senor ,” and 
something more that I could not understand. 

I stammered and bowed, and thought what a fool I was before 
young women, and how much better you would have behaved in 
the emergency (only I’m glad it was not you). And soon the Don 
lifted the young Senorita into his saddle, and we followed with 
the horses and the prisoner. 

Well, to make a long story short, old boy, Tufton was buried 
not far from the spot where he fell. I spare you details ; but it 
was simply horrible, the manner of his death. I put a simple 
little board at his grave, with his name on it. Juan was sent 
back immediately to carry word to the people below of the cap- 
ture. We spent the night at the stage-station; and the next 
morning we separated, Machado driving the prisoner before him 
on his horse, — he was a Mexican of the lowest type, and had had 
some trouble with old Machado, I believe, — the young Don and 
the Senorita galloping off on fresh horses, and your humble ser- 
vant coming up to Santa Barbara astride of the noblest animal I 
ever mounted, my dear boy, — the Don’s glorious black, which he 
pressed upon me, and which I had already coveted. Machado 
joins me here to-morrow. I came up here in order to present mv 
letter to Judge Hewett, the only Harvard man here, but find him 
ou t of town. 


Did you know that many of the high-bred Castilians are 
purest blondes, Tom? — fair hair, blue eyes, and, oh! such com- 
plexions ! Fact ; and I own I was vastly surprised to find that the 
Senorita was of this type when Simmons and I made our first 


430 


HAMMERSMITH : 


call at the Camulos. You can imagine what a striking picture 
the two must make together, — she, with her fair hair, blue eyes, 
and cheeks showing just a faint blush continually; the young 
Don, with hair, eyes, and mustaches black as night, and such a 
way of flashing upon you in surprise or anger! 

I can imagine that this news will create not a little surprise 
among the fellows in Cambridge, — to whom make my kindest 
remembrances, — and yet I fear that you will be putting me down 
as a confirmed romancer, like Ruddiman, our old crony, and your 
present bete noire. It is too true, too true, my dear fellow ; and 
for proof I can show you Tuf ton’s seal-ring (which you of course 
remember, — the one with the sphinx cut in it), which I thought 
I might as well take as to leave it for Juan and the rest. I saw 
that nothing else was removed. Poor fellow! I thank God that 
it was Juan’s bullet, and not mine! 

I am stopping with the Micheltorrenas, the swell Spanish 
family in town; and I shall describe their picturesque though 
rather slow modes of life next time. Young Machado gave me a 
line to them when I left him at Rincon ; and they are treating 
me as though I were one of the royal family. My noble steed, 
Don Sebastian, I can see tethered in a neighboring field ; a young 
Micheltorrena is singing a jolly little Spanish song to her guitar 
in the corridor by the court-yard ; and if I only had some such 
sympathetic fellow as you, Tom, to talk to, and receive my enthu- 
siasm over the life and the country out here, I should be quite 
happy. I have not yet delivered my letter to Judge Hewett, as 
I believe I have said above. 

By-by, then, for a while, my dear fellow. Kind regards, as I 
said before, and for yourself the undying devotion of 

Yours, ever, 

Penhallow. 

You might perhaps get this to my family, if you can conven- 
iently: it will save my writing it all out again for them; and 
writing is such a bore in this country, where every thing draws a 
fellow out of doors. Don’t fail to keep your promise about class 
day and commencement. Make your account as full as possible, 
and tell me all the gossip that you can collect. Why, class elec- 
tions must have come off by this time ! I wonder if they were 
as stormy as usual. You must write me a full account of them. 
I wonder what mighty honor you have had bestowed on you, my 
boy. They will have hard work to decide which to give you, I 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


431 


fear, you devastating fellow ! Perhaps three or four oihces com- 
bined. By-by again, 


“Talk of there being no romance in the nineteenth 
century ! ” exclaimed Ruddiman, in a group of men 
returning from a society meeting, this letter of Hammer- 
smith’s being under discussion. “There’s plenty of it, 
if a man only knows where to find it.” 

“ Certainly,” said Freemantle drowsily. “ What’s her 
name now, Rud? ” 

“ O gammon ! ” answered Ruddiman, “ I wasn’t think- 
ing of myself.” 

“No: somebody else, of course. It’s very necessary, 
somebody else, if a man would have a romance,” put in 
Albemarle. , 

“ Some men don’t appreciate any thing of the kind 
till it’s shoved down their throats,” retorted Ruddiman, 
the quickty appreciating. 

“ And some men go about with their mouths open pe- 
reuniall}-, in hopes something of the kind will drop into 
them, ’ ’ added Pinckney. 4 4 But never despair, Rud. Tour 
turn will come some day ; and you’ll perhaps be able to 
rescue a Senorita , or a 4 goody,’ or some other fair creature, 
as well as Penhallow. By Jove, but I should like to have 
been on that ride of his ! Mighty exciting it must have 
been — eh, fellows?” And the fellows thought it was, 
and all college thought it was. It was talked about, and 
gossiped about ; and Hammersmith’s former history was 
again brought forward for discussion. Would the Tufton 
imbroglio never be entirely forgotten ? Would he never 
bear the last of it? The tragic end of poor Tuftcn, too, 
who had figured so in Cambridge not many years ago, 
made a profound sensation among the people who had 
known him in all his splendor, and through the halls 
wnere his sleek presence was so well remembered. 


432 


HAMMERSMITH : 


How it should make a man pause and deliberate in his 
V03 r age through life, — the thought of the resurgent mem- 
ories and bitter castaway facts that will rise continually 
from out the wreck of the past, whether he' will or not ! 
How they return to strew the fair shore of the present 
with ocean-spume and mocking faces that make one shud- 
der at their swift re-appearance ! Small wonder that Cir- 
cumspection puts on its glasses more and more, as men 
advance in years, when every thought, every new rela- 
tion, every change of residence, every casual acquaint- 
ance even, is known to hold the possibility of a life-long 
experience, a memory that can never quite die out, bind- 
ing arms that never lose their hold, but, free as you think 
you are, pull you back remorselessly into the dark caverns 
of the past, set with waning lights. 

Hammersmith could not but be powerfully affected by 
this descriptive and dramatic letter of Penhallow’s, this 
tragic death of the man who had done so much to imbit- 
ter his early college-life, sowing thoughts and suspicions 
in his mind that could never be quite rooted out. He did 
not make a display of passing the letter about : it was 
100 unhappy an experience, too sad a death, to dwell 
upon. He showed it to Goldie, Pinckney, and one or two 
others : he would have liked to show it to Breese ; but 
he could never speak to him again. That was all that he 
ever thought nowadavs of his relation to Breese : every 
thing was over ; there was an end of it. A Hammer- 
smith does not go about reviving dead friendships, mak- 
ing apologies, retracting words that have been said, what- 
ever their effect. He would never have another word 
with him, unless, indeed, his official relation to Breese as 
chief marshal on class day should require. How little 
any of them knew, even yet, what was in store for them ! 

Such an adventure, such news, however, could not 
remain secret, much as Hammersmith might desire 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


438 


Well as his troubles were known to have resulted from 
association with this same Tufton, well as his hatred of 
gossip was understood, poor Tom was subjected to a 
thousand questions, a thousand light exclamations from 
fair friends in Boston and Cambridge, and appreciated, as 
lie never had done before, how indissolubly linked all 
one’s acts and experiences are one with the other, alas 
for unhappy man ! 

“You are very kind never to have said a word about 
this Tufton news, Miss Darby,” said Hammersmith at a 
musical party at Mrs. Fayerweather’s in early spring. 
“ Have you heard it? ” 

“ Yes, I’ve heard of it,” she answered. “ But I thought 
you were probably bored to death already about it ; and I 
knew it could not be a pleasant memory for you.” 

“ I wish others were as considerate,” said Hammer- 
smith. “ Penhallow seems to have had a very exciting 
time of it, — his young Don, and the Senorita , and the 
rest. California must have a very stimulating effect on 
the imagination, don’t you think? ” 

“Perhaps so. I’ve been reading a good deal about 
California lately, — every thing that I can lay hands on ; 
but there’s so little written about it ! almost nothing. 
Life must be very delightful out there, especially where 
Mr. Penhallow is. The climate is perfect, I understand, 
and every thing must be so fresh and novel ! Here, ah. 
how commonplace every thing is ! I had almost said, 
everybody. You can always tell beforehand what any 
cme is going to say to you. You can always tell what 
you’re going to do from day to day. It must be fasci- 
nating to live such a wild life. If I were a man, I would 
never be content till I could strike out in some new land, 
with every thing untamed and strange about me. I hate 
all this tiresome life ! I hate people so ! ” 

“Why, Miss Darb}’ ! ” Hammersmith began; and no 


434 


hammersmith: 


one can tell how the world’s history might have been 
altered, from that evening on, if Mr. Beauclerk, a young 
English tutor just arrived in Cambridge, had not come up 
to summon Miss Darby to the piano, where she was 
needed in a trio, and prevented Hammersmith from finish- 
ing his sentence. 

He had no opportunity of uninterrupted conversation 
with her again that evening. Before another occasion 
offered, while he was still, in moments of reflection, pon- 
dering and wondering over that frank speech of hers, and 
the mood that could have allowed it, events transpired 
which in a measure explained it, — events which not only 
explained it, but made Mr. Tom’s own course more easy 
and more difficult at the same time. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


485 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

WAR-NOTES AND OTHER SURPRISES. 

“ A blow from the hand of her we love is as sweet as raisins.” — Arabic 
Proverb. 

“ Eo, neque ut noctu iter facientes infestem, 

Sed amo; pulcrum autem est amantem in amore adjuvare.” — Bion. 

S TUDENTS had been leaving for the seat of war in 
the South for many months now, bidding good-by 
to the peaceful scenes where their young lives had been 
nurtured. 

Pinckney, chivalric Pinckney, Trimble, many Southern- 
ers from the different schools of the university, had long 
ago left, to cast their lot with their families and their kin- 
dred. Breese, Goldie, Curtis, very many of Hammer- 
smith's class, were going or about to go ; and Tom him- 
self, eager, impetuous Tom, would have been among the 
foremost to set out, months ago, had it not been for the 
extremely delicate state of his mother's health, of which 
his sweet 3 T oung sister Mabel kept him duly informed. 

“Do not imagine that she is worse than she is, dear 
Tom," Miss Mabel had written in one of her letters. “ I 
have no doubt she will be quite strong again by your class- 
day. She talks of you very, very often, hopqp you are 
going to graduate with high honors in your class ; and I 
beg j^ou, Tom, as 3 r ou love her, not to think of going off 
at present. If the war is not over when 3^ou graduate, 
as we confidently hope it may be, perhaps she may feel 
differently ; and I am sure she will be stronger, and better 
able to bear your going. 


436 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“lam coining on to Miss Darby’s in the end of May. 
dear Tom: are you glad? Mother is to stay at auntie’s 
till your class-day week (that is, if she is well enough ; 
of course I shall not leave her if she is not) ; and uncle 
Gayton is to come on and get her in time for the great 
day. Oh, what a nice time we shall have, Tom dear ! ” 


It was while returning from a large mass-meeting of the 
citizens of Cambridge, where impassioned speeches had 
been made, and the war-spirit aroused to an extraordi- 
nary degree, that Hammersmith, his mind full of the elo- 
quence that he had just heard, and yet busy with the 
thought of this anxious news from home, was overtaken 
and passed by Breese, walking rapidly, as usual. 

Breese turned after passing, and waited for Tom to 
come up. He did not hold out his hand, but said quiet- 

!y> — 

“Hammersmith, perhaps I’m committing an imperti- 
nence ; but this is not a time for small feelings to separate 
people. I want to talk to you. May I walk with you? 
Will you come up to my rooms? ” 

“As 3'ou will,” answered Hammersmith; and they 
walked in silence to Breese’ s quarters, — Hammersmith 
much softened in spirit by the news from home, the ex- 
citement roused by the evening’s speeches, and the feel- 
ing, that, anxious as he might be to go to the war, his duty 
to his mother required that he should abandon the idea, 
for the present at least, and see his friends depart without 
him; Breese quiet and subdued from quite a different 
reason, and from the effect of a sudden resolve that he had 
made that very evening, at the meeting. 

“Hammersmith,” said Breese, when they had entered 
his rooms, — the first time for Tom since their midnight 
quarrel, — “I’m going to the war on Monday, and .1 
couldn’t go without seeing you again.” 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


437 


“ By Jove ! I wish I might say the same : [ wich I were 
going !” responded Hammersmith energetically ; and he 
explained his situation. 

“ You are right, entirely right,” said Breese. “ But 1 
am differently situated : I have nobod}^ depending on me, 
nobody to care whether I fall or not.” And he stopped 
a moment, while Tom looked up in surprise at his words. 

“ Hammersmith, if a man loves a woman and can’t win 
her, is it a manly way to go moping about, cursing the 
world in general, and young women in particular? ” 

“By Jove!” exclaimed Tom. “I cjon’t know what 
in thunder you are driving at ; but I don’t see what my 
affairs have got to do with your going to the war ; 
and” — 

“ Pardon me, pardon me!” answered Breese. “I’m 
talking of myself, I’m talking of myself, Hammersmith. 
Don’t think that I would be guilty of such an impertinence 
as alluding to affairs of your own in this connection ! I 
mean m} 7 self ; and that’s what I want to tell you about. 
I am not engaged to Miss Darby, Hammersmith. I never 
have been, and I now never expect to be.” 

“ Thunder ! ” was Tom’s only answer. 

“You may well say so,” said Breese. “Probably 
more people than yourself would say the same, with a 
different exclamation perhaps. But it is not my fault or 
hers that reports of our engagement have gotten about. 

“ Now, Hammersmith, you and I are not the men to 
whine about our misfortunes. I know that well enough. 
You know it well enough. So that I’ve not asked you 
up here for the purpose of pouring my sorrows into 
your ear, as I understand Ruddiman is in the habit of 
doing ” — 

“ Oh, hang Ruddiman ! ” said Tom. 

“ Yes, yes, hang him, say I ! Nor have I any apology 
lo make for any words that I may have spoken to you in 


438 


HAMMERSMITH : 


this room several months ago. I do not ask you for any 
apology : I do not propose to make any apology myself 
But I have been thinking, all these weeks, over that mis- 
erable evening’s work ; and I’m convinced not only that 
you received a wrong impression from my words at the 
time, but that I would be a mean coward and a sneak, if 
I went off to the war, and did not try to undo their ill 
effect, — to explain to you how I spoke as I did. 

“ Two evenings before we quarrelled in this room, I 
had offered myself to Miss Darby, and she had refused 
me. 

“I do not need to go back of that evening, Hammer- 
smith, in talking to you, who know my college-history 
better than any man in the class. You know that I would 
never talk to another man in all the world as I am talk- 
ing to you. I do not need to go back to those earlier 
times, when we used to discuss every thing under the sun, 
and beyond the sun, or to say any thing about my strict 
and settled views about various matters. 

4 4 You know how firm I was in my determination never 
to go into society. You know how our half-playful dis- 
cussions on the subject ended ; how you carried the day ; 
(though I never dreamed how it would all turn out, Heaven 
knows !) how I went out again and again and again — and 
how did it all end? My God, how did it all end? ” and 
the strong man arose, and paced the room in agitation ; 
while Hammersmith’s mind was filled with strange, con- 
fusing thoughts, — wonder, pity, remorse, expectancy, 
fear. 

“Mount Desert came on. You know about that, and 
how that infernal Ruddiman thought fit to spread a thou- 
sand rumors and a thousand exaggerated reports about 
us, — about Miss Darby and me. I would have throttled 
him long ago if Miss Darby had allowed me, and if it 
would not have caused an unpleasant scandal and pub- 
licity. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


439 


“I do no more than allude to these things, though: 
you kr.ow them ; I know them. You know that a j T oung 
woman never once entered into my scheme of life as we 
used to talk about it ; you know now that my firm-set 
plans were all upset, — that I loved Miss Darby, struggle 
against it as I might, and that I have failed to make her 
love me in return. 

“ Now, this is all about myself, Hammersmith, about 
my own personal matters ; and I certainly would not have 
asked to have this talk with you if there were not some- 
thing else. 

“ I feel that you will pardon me, I know that you will 
not fly out at me. Heaven knows how I have struggled 
with myself to decide what was best to be done in this 
emergency ! If you knew it, and how I hate to meddle 
with other people's business, you would appreciate my 
motives ; and I feel that you can. 

“ As I started out with saying, if a man loves a woman 
truly and deeply, and fails to win her, is he any thing but 
a weakling to go about abusing her, or himself, or the 
universe in general ? Is he any thing but a coward to go 
and shoot himself, or butt his brains out against a wall ? 

“If he does that, does it not show that his was only a 
selfish, savage love, — the love of a boy, who goes about 
making faces, and sulking, when a boy-rival cuts him out? 
If a man really loves a woman, does he not desire her 
perfect happiness, her absolute satisfaction, as far as earth 
can give it ? I think so. And if he finds at last, strive 
as he may, that he is not the man to make her happy, that 
she looks to somebody else, ought he not to step aside, 
and pray God that she may be happy with that other 
person? I think so; and I believe you think so too, 
Hammersmith. 

“Miss Darby does not love me: she loves you, No, 
no : don't tell me any thing about it ! I beg, above all 


440 


HAMMERSMITH : 


things,, that you will not say a word of your own feelings, 
I would be ashamed of myself, if I brought you up here, 
and, even by inference, drew your feelings from you. Be- 
lieve me, Hammersmith, I am doing a thing that cuts me 
to the quick, — a thing that Miss Darby herself might 
never forgive me for, but which, as I have asked Heaven’s 
guidance, I cannot refrain from doing. 

“ Don’t ask me how I know it ! I know that you will 
not. Don’t ask me why we did not deny the report of 
our engagement ! Both those are things very difficult to 
answer. But I know that she loves you. I know it from 
every word end look and action of hers, when your name 
is mentioned, or when you are near yourself. I knew it 
at the end of sophomore year, when I went to see her 
father about your suspension.” 

“ You went to see her father ! ” said Tom in surprise. 

“Yes,” answered Breese, and explained his connec- 
tion with the matter, — how he had met the father and 
daughter in the professor’s library, had an earnest talk 
with them on the subject, and finally had gone to presi- 
dent Durum er and others to intercede for him. 

“ Well,” Tom, “ I thought I knew all the particu- 
lars of that affair by this time ; but it seems I was mis- 
taken. And I have to thank you again, Breese, as I do 
most heartily. ’ ’ And Tom wandered back, in his memory, 
over the old imbroglio and Miss Darby’s connection with 
it, and all the little facts that had come out since. 

“And about denying the report of the engagement,” 
continued Breese: “you know, as well as I, why she 
would not allow it. That’s one thing about Miss Darcy 
that I never could quite understand. 

“ Then she went away to New York for a month, after 
that night and my rejection ; and all this war-fever broke 
out ; and you deserted Cambridge society almost entirely • 
and so matters have slipped along till now. 


HIS HARVARu DA VS. 


441 


“Now do you see a little better how it all is? I loved 
her ; I love her yet, — God knows how much ! I desire 
her perfect happiness above any one thing that I desire on 
earth, and would do any thing, yes, any thing to-day, to 
assure it. She does not love me, but somebody else. I 
call that other person to me, swallow my pride, tell him 
what I know, leave the rest to him. 

“Now you can understand, Hammersmith, somewhat 
how I felt that evening when you burst in upon me after 
your great day at cricket. I had just been thrown over 
by her ; my mind was still busy with her, — as it is to- 
night, and has been for months, — and I could not bear 
the idea of anybody taking her name for a toast in so 
light a way.” 

“ Yes,” said Hammersmith ; “ and I had no right to do 
it. But I had been at a supper at Kent’s ; I was flushed 
with my success in cricket : and the fact is, I was desper- 
ate (if you must know it) to find out how you stood.” 

“Well, well, it’s all past now,” answered Breese, with 
a wave of his hand. 

“Not all,” said Hammersmith; “for I have still to 
offer you my hand, Breese, and ask that you will try 
to forget all that wretched evening’s work.” And the two 
men stood again under the gaslight, grasping hands this 
time with the hearty grip common to each of them, and 
looking into each other’s eyes with quite a different look 
from that of the bitter midnight many weeks ago. 

Far into the night, with the thought of this woman 
oetween them, they sat, not alluding again to the subject, 
but talking, as they had not talked for months, of their col- 
lege-life, their future plans now so rudely broken in upon, 
and the grand call that their country was making upon 
their manhood. But the thought of this woman, beloved 
of both, was there between them ; and then, as in the few 
days of Breese’s delay in getting away, it bound the two 


442 


HAMMERSMITH * 


together in a manner difficult to describe. It came as 
the crooning consecration to Breese’s self-sacrifice, and 
was regarded by Hammersmith in the light of a precious 
legacy, very pleasant to contemplate, but much involved, 
so foolish and arrogant and snobbish had he been for 
months, and so neglectful of his good Cambridge friends, 
— of none more so than of Miss Darby. 

So, for the three days or more of Breese’s stay, the two 
re-united friends spent as much time as possible together ; 
and all their long walks and talks were eloquent of one 
j T oung woman, though they said never a word about her. 

And when, on Monday, Breese and Farley, Curtis and 
Wingate and others, went off to the war in the same com- 
pany, amid the cheers and blessings of their classmates, 
who had flocked to Boston in crowds to see them start, 
Breese seemed to all the rest to be about the happiest fel- 
low on the face of the earth, — beloved of a beautiful 
woman, head scholar of his class, and marching forth to 
further glory among guns and trumpets and battle-flags. 
Tom alone knew what heaviness there was at the poor fel- 
low’s heart, how grandly he tried to conceal it, and thank 
God in the very midst of his grief. And Tom went back 
to Cambridge, strangely strengthened in his mind by the 
thought that the world contained such a patient, whole- 
souled, noble fellow as Breese, who could carry himself 
as he had carried himself in this matter, sinking all 
thought of himself in his great desire for Miss Darby’s 
happiness, and daring to tell the truth to Hammersmith 
as fearlessly, with as much tact, as he had done. 


When he was leaving, and his classmates were bidding 
aim hearty good-bj^s, he had alluded for once only to the 
old subject, taking Tom aside a bit, and saying, — 

“You will write to me now and then, Hammersmith 9 
A-nd — you will tell me how she is? an 5. the college 
news? ” 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


448 


“ That I will, my dear fellow,” said Hammersmith. 
n Depend upon it ! And I shall be with you the moment 
I graduate, if it is a possible thing. Jove, how I wish 1 
were going now ! ” 

“ God bless you ! ” said Breese ; and the drums rolled, 
Breese stepped back into the ranks, and, with a tremen- 
dous chorus of cheers from the students at hand, he wa3 
off, with his face to duty, his heart and life consecrated to 
noble daring. And Hammersmith and the others went 
back to Cambridge, restless, and longing for their day of 
graduation to come. 


HAMMERSMITH * 


4.44 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

MISS DARBY AND MR. TOM ON THEIR HIGH HORSES. 

“ Quae aecuta sunt defleri magis quam defend! poBSunt.” — Tacitus. 

“ I find she loves him much because she hides it : 

Love teaches cunning, even to Innocence.” — Dryden. 

“ Fooles in love’s colledge 
Have farre more Knowledge 
To Reade a woman over 

Than a neate prating lover.” — John Lyly, Mother Bombie. 

I F there be any young readers, any very young readers, 
who have followed the biography of Hammersmith as 
far as this, they will probably exclaim, at this point in his 
history, “Now I hope Hammersmith will not be foolish 
an}' longer ! Breese is out of the way ; the coast is clear : 
if Mr. Tom loves her, why doesn’t he go up boldly and 
tell her so? ” 

Very natural question, very natural interest in Ham- 
mersmith’s behalf. As his biographer, permit me to 
thank 3'ou for desiring expedition and success for the 
young fellow. 

But, bless me ! do we all march bravely up and declare 
ourselves to the girls we love ? Are we always sure just 
when we love them? And do you forget, that, for long 
months now, Hammersmith had been shunning the Cam- 
bridge social world with a remarkable fatuity, occasional- 
ly descending upon it with a patronizing air that was 
worse than absence, and imagining, with that adorable 
perversity of youth before alluded to, that he was utterly 
blase and misanthropic, no longer fit company for the ei> 


HIS HAH YARD DAYS. 


445 


thubiastic folk of the university town ? Would you have 
a man return to a young woman whom he has treated 
with distinguished neglect, and say, “ I have been trying 
to amuse myself with the gay world ; but I find it's all 
emptiness and mockery, and I don’t seem to care for any- 
body or any thing ! I haven’t much spirit or enthusiasm 
left, but, such as I am, behold me ! I haven’t treated you 
very well, to be sure ; but you used to be my good friend 
in our younger days, when we were both very verdant : 
will you be something nearer to me now?” Bless me! 
Would you have a young woman subjected to such an in- 
sult as this? Would you have her treated as Miss Darby 
had been treated for months, and expect her to receive 
the repentant Hammersmith with open arms so soon as 
he chose to return to her ? Heaven forbid ! And you are 
vastly mistaken in Miss Darby, if 3 r ou imagine that she 
would have been other than highly incensed at Hammer- 
smith, or Breese, or anybody, who should dare to pla}’ 
fast and loose in such a way with her feelings. You are 
vastly mistaken in Hammersmith, if you can think him 
guilty of such an impertinence. 

The closing weeks of his college- course, the frequent 
meetings of his classmates, his relation as chief marshal 
to the various committees and arrangements incident 
to graduation, the severe class-work preparatory to the 
final examinations, and, above all, the kindling war-spirit 
which drew the young men more and more together as 
the time for their own participation in the struggle came 
near, — all these things, as well as the startling revelation 
of Breese, with, perhaps, a nuance of disgust at his own 
frivolous life of the past winter, conspired to attract 
Hammersmith to Cambridge the more, and to break up 
the clouds that had gathered in his sky. 

That awful official, the class secretaiy, was abroad, 
requesting his classmates’ biographies, their plans in life, 


m 


HAMMERSMITH : 


their religious faith, and every minutest fact in their his- 
tory, from the size of their biceps to the names of their 
maternal grandmothers of the fiftieth remove. The class- 
song, written by Pinckney — poor Pinckney ! — before he 
went away, was in active rehearsal in upper Harvard Hall, 
whence its swelling chorus came forth into the night-air 
twice or thrice a week, adding a pensive refrain to the 
musings of under-classmen gathered in their rooms about 
the quadrangle, and drawing the thoughts of the singers 
more and more to the final day of festivity and college 
entertainment, when this joyous song was to be given. 
The various societies, — Hasty Pudding, O. K., Natural 
History, Glee Club, Pierian Sodality, <Z>. B. K., and others, 

— various club-tables and congenial “ entries ” of men, 
the Eleven, the ’Varsity, the college-buildings, the faculty, 
the doughty “goodies ” and skips, all were being photo- 
graphed by the class photographer. The class-day com- 
mittee was busily engaged preparing for the abundant 
good time of that day. Men were already deciding upon 
the place and style of their “ spreads,” — some in sets, 
some few by themselves. Albemarle, who had been chosen 
orator in Breese’s place, was preparing his class-day ora- 
tion. Oliver, who had succeeded Trimble as poet, was 
reading extracts of his poem occasionally to Hammer- 
smith and others. Letters were coming from Breese and 
the rest at the seat of war in Virginia. 

How could Mr. Tom, in the midst of all these tender 
associations pointing to their day of graduation and the 
time when they were to leave these dear old scenes forever, 

— how could he do other than forget all that was bitter 
in the past ? above all, forget the silly role that he had 
assumed so grandly during the winter, and be himself 
again ? How could he fail to be affected by all the crowd- 
ing thoughts and hopes which these final preparations 
aroused, and tc be filled with infinite tenderness for all 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


447 


the old places and haunts of the university, aud all the 
people in any way pleasurably associated with them? 
That man’s spirit must be indeed bitter, or his 3’oung life 
indeed hopeless, who can be otherwise than pleasantly, 
pensively, and regretfully moved by these closing weeks 
of his college-life which Hammersmith is now passing 
through. 

We have not the space to describe the various occasions 
on which Tom and Miss Darby were brought together at 
this period, before the arrival of Miss Mabel Hammer- 
smith; how they rode together occasionally, with a 
strange sort of silence between them now and then ; how 
they talked of books and people, the war, the approach- 
ing class-day, and the thousand and one things that form 
the subject of young people’s learned discussions ; how 
Tom now and then accompanied Miss Darby to a small 
children’s charity-hospital not far from Harvard Square, 
which Miss Fayerweather, Miss Summerdale, and she 
were largely instrumental in supporting ; and how pleas- 
ant it was to Tom to feel himself slipping back to his 
former sensible life, and intimacy with his good Cambridge 
Mends. 

“ Well, I declare, Miss Darby,” said he one afternoon, 
as they came out of the little hospital, where he had been 
greatly affected by the sight of the patient young sufferers, 
with Miss Darby moving among them like some divine 
messenger, followed continually by their loving looks, “ I 
think it’s wonderfully sweet in you to give so much time 
to those little beggars ! I’d no idea that you had such 
an army of worshippers 1 ’ 

“ No? ” she said. “ It is the greatest comfort in the 
»vcrld ! They are so sweet, and so thankful for every thing 
that is done for them ! II isa perfect rest to go and see 
them. I sometimes think that I am only intended to take 
care of such castaways and invalids as those. They seem 


£48 


H vmmersmith: 


to appreciate kindness so much better than well people, 
don’t you think? ” 

“Yes,” said Tom, 4 4 they do certainly. I never saw 
such glorified looks in my life as they gave when you 
went around among them.” 

44 Poor little innocents! Didn’t you enjoy going? X 
thought you would. I really would find it hard to decide, 
Mr. Hammersmith, if I had to choose between the world 
and my hospital : I enjoy them both. But the world is 
so cold and haughty, and full of misunderstanding ! and 
my small people here are so different ! I think I would 
choose my hospital, if I had to take one or the other 
only.” Hammersmith was switching trees and weeds with 
his cane as he walked, and did not say much as she talked 
thus. 

The next day they were riding in the direction of Bel- 
mont, Hammersmith again very silent. He was thinking 
what a mockery life is ; wLat fools men make of them- 
selves ; how they refuse happiness when it is at their 
very threshold ; how they rush off into extravagance and 
folly, and try to imagine themselves very grand and indif- 
ferent ; and how, after all, they come back to the simple 
faith of their boyhood, and, if they are not wholly hard- 
ened and wholly lost, believe that the love of a good 
woman is of more worth than all the gay pageants and 
brilliant escapades of Christendom put together. He was 
thinking of Breese, too, and of the young woman by his 
side ; and — well, he was thinking of a great many things, 
as you may imagine, this sweet May afternoon. 

He was again switching the foliage of the trees they 
passed, this time with his riding-stick, when he broke 
out, — 

44 Miss Darby, I’ve been an awful fool ! ” 

She turned her face partly towards him, and then looked 
straight ahead. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


449 


‘ ■ I’ve been an awful fool all these months, I say. It’s 
a very hard tiling to explain. But, if I had not been so 
much interested in you, I would not have minded every 
little change so much.” 

“I don’t understand you, Mr. Hammersmith,” sho 
said, flashing upon him for an instant, indignant. “ What 
change do you refer to? ” 

“Oh! nothing in particular. But, you see, I’m very 
sensitive. I come of a sensitive family ; and every little 
thing affects us, and makes us fly off at a tangent.” 

“But still I don’t understand you,” she returned. 
And she reined her horse in as they came to an entrance 
to the Waverley Woods. “ I don’t see what I have done 
to make you fly off at a tangent, as you say.” And she 
became silent, and looked off into the grove. 

“Well, you know a fellow often sees things, or ima- 
gines he sees things, that affect him ; and yet he cannot 
explain them,” Hammersmith continued blindly. 

“ I haven’t an idea what you are talking about,” said 
Miss Darby. 

“ I suppose it was very weak in me ; but I couldn’t 
help it,” urged Tom ; and any further blind explanation 
of his was cut off by Miss Darby’s suddenly leaping from 
her horse, tying the reins quickly to a branch of a tree, 
and seating herself by a rock in the grove wUoh they had 
entered. 

“For Heaven’s sake, what is this for?” asked Ham- 
mersmith, dismounting, and leading his horse to where 
she sat, whipping the grass with her riding- whip. 

“Iam going to stay here. I wish you would go on,” 
she said ; and her eyes were bright with rage, and her 
sheeks a bit pale, as she spoke. 

“ But I cannot. What have I done, Miss Darby? ” 

“Nothing; but I wish you would go.” And she 
whipped the grass again, and ner riding-habit, biting ber 
lips the while. 


450 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“ I cannot leave j r ou here: it -would not De proper. 
Believe me, Miss Darby, I did not mean to hurt youi 
feelings. What have I said? ” he pleaded. 

“Nothing, I say. But I wish you would go away.” 
•And she turned her angry eyes upon him again. But, 
before he could reply, she exclaimed bitter^, “That I. 
should have come to this! ” and presently again, “ That 
I should have come to this ! ” as her eyes filled with tears. 

I confess I was weak,” said Tom again. “I 
ought” — 

“Yes, you were weak, weaker than water!” she ex- 
claimed. “Oh that I — Mr. Hammersmith, will you 
leave me ? I cannot bear to have you here.” 

“ Do you mean it? ” 

“Ido.” 

“ How will it look for you to come riding back alone? ” 

“ 1 don’t care how it looks ! Why should I? That ] 
should have come to this ! ” 

“ Good-by, then;” and Hammersmith lifted his hat, 
led his horse a space apart, mounted, and rode slowly 
away, while she kept her e3 r es fixed on. the ground at her 
feet. 

O buds and flowers ! O waving grass, and sheltering 
boughs that looked down upon the scene ! what a sad sight 
you saw ! Can this be our brave Hammersmith, mount- 
ing his horse, and leaving the woman that he loves alone 
in the greenwood, alone with her bruised thoughts, pad 
her anger at the half-wa} r Hammersmith? Will he never 
learn a young woman’s ways? Or is this youngster, — 
who can stand up before the bowling of the “ Young 
Americas,” fight his way through a street-mob, and pull 
his heart out in a boat-race, — after all, merely like many 
another young fellow, afraid to brave the pleasant dangers 
of a 3'oung woman, afraid to believe what he scarcely 
dares hope, and, above all, unable to comprehend the 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


451 


ways of a high-bred, sensitive girl, and her fine rage at 
having allowed her own feelings to be known, as Miss 
Darby fears that she has done? Well, well, shut up the 
page, and call him a very blind or a very cowardly young 
fellow, but do not blame him for thinking that perhaps he 
had mortally offended ler, that perhaps she had never 
cared a straw for him, that perhaps she really meant in 
good faith that he should go away and not offend her 
further. Overmodesty may be more of a failing than of a 
virtue ; but it is infinitely preferable, I conceive, to an 
overweening Ruddiman confidence and egotism. 

At the brow of a little hill he pulled up, and sat wait- 
ing on his horse. Every thing looked wofully dark and 
chilly to him, though the sun was shining bright along the 
road, and the birds were singing and fluttering in the 
trees, as though there were no heavy-hearted Hammer- 
smith in existence, sitting there like a statue, gazing 
down the road. 

Presently Miss Darby appeared on her horse, coming 
slowly up the country lane, her head dropped forward, 
apparently unconscious where she went. She started 
and blushed, and then turned very pale, as Hammersmith 
said, — 

“Miss Darby, you must pardon me; but I could not 
let you ride back alone. I will promise not to say a 
word ; but you must let me ride back with you. Will you 
not? ” 

“I told you to go away. You have not gone,” she 
said, as she turned her eyes towards him a moment : they 
were dim with tears. 

u But it is growing dark. I cannot let you go back 
&_<one.” 

“ You cannot let me!” she said, with a deep emphasis 
pf scorn and rage combined. “ Well, just as you will, 
then ; ” and, bey »nd a ^ord or two on indifferent matters, 


452 


HAMMERSMITH : 


not a word was spoken on that longest of rides that Ham- 
mersmith had ever taken in his life. 

They rode slowly; they were seldom out of a walk. 
They passed several people whom they knew ; and Ham- 
mersmith summoned courage to appear to be carrying on 
an animated conversation with Miss Darby, to conceal 
their awkward, solemn quiet. It seemed a hundred years 
to Hammersmith, and to Miss Darby as well I imagine, 
before they reached her home. 

What Hammersmith's thoughts were during this black- 
est of rides, what they were as he watched her averted 
face through it all, what he imagined and feared and 
suspected, after he had left her at her gate with a simple, 
“Good-by, I do not see what I have done, Miss Darby," 
as well as during the two days before his sister's arrival, 
it would be difficult to discover. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


453 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


tS WHICH SOME PRETTY BARBARIANS INVADE THE QUAD- 


RANGLE, 


44 Strepit omnis murmure campus.” — Virgil. 


“Nessun maggior dolore 
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
Nella miseria.” — D^ nte. 



ISS MABEL HAMMERSMITH arrived in Cam- 


-LVJ_ bridge, radiant as are all the young Hammersmith 
maidens. What freshness, what cloud-dispelling sunshine, 
she brought ! 

As many a young man, in the midst of troubles and 
boyish mystification, has been cheered by the coming of 
a loving young sister, bursting in upon him, bright-eyed, 
from the outer world, unconscious of his troubles, uncon- 
scious even of the cheer that she brings, so Mr. Tom was 
infinitely refreshed, infinitely strengthened, by her sunny 
presence. 

Girls may be the most extraordinary creatures in the 
world, as the ingenuous boating-man Goldie had said ; 
but they are probably the best of allies and comforters for 
despondent brothers, when they choose to be ; which is a 
fact that Hammersmith, most affectionate of brothers, has 
never been known to contradict. 

“ How glad I am to be here, Tom dear ! ” Miss Mabel 
exclaimed as they were riding past the college-grounds. 
“ And how beautiful it all is ! Why, you have never 
given us half of an idea how lovely the quadrangle is ; 


I 


454 


HAMMERSMITH : 


you naughty fellow ! You’ve been too busy studying, I 
suppose ; ” and she gave him a sly look. 

44 Oh ! I hate to write descriptions,” said Tom. 44 They 
never do justice. And I knew you and mother would be 
here some day to see it all for yourselves.” 

44 Who was that you just bowed to?” asked Miss 
Mabel. 

44 Tutor Beauclerk, a young Englishman who has been 
here this year.” And a mere shadow of a shade passed 
over Mr. Tom’s face as he spoke ; for Mr. Beauclerk was 
a devoted friend of Miss Darby’s, and had been honored 
with a large share of Hammersmith’s gloomy thoughts 
during the last few days, as well as during that dismal 
return-ride of his and Miss Darby’s from the Waverley 
Woods. 

44 And the first thing I want to do, Tom, is to see your 
rooms, and walk all about Cambridge with you, and hear 
all about every thing,” Miss Mabel said, as the coachman 
was ordered to take a turn about the Delta, and was carry- 
ing them, by way of Kirkland Street and the Washington 
Elm, to Professor Darby’s. 

44 Oh! there’s time enough for that,” answered her 
brother. 44 We don’t like to have girls running about 
our rooms, and rummaging over every thing.” 

44 But you’ve got to have me,” said Miss Mabel, 44 and 
to-morrow afternoon too ! So you had better put your 
rooms in order, and hide any thing that you don’t want 
ms to see, you wicked boy ! for, if the Darbys can come, I 
shall certainly make them.” 

And, sure enough, the next afternoon, Mrs. and Miss 
Darby and Miss Hammersmith, escorted by Goldie and 
Tom, were sailing through the quadrangle, the young men 
pointing out the various buildings, the rooms of distin- 
guished graduates and prominent undergraduates, — theii 
own of course among the latter, — the different recitation- 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


455 


ha, Us, the chapel, the library, and lifting their hats again 
atd again as they passed professors and tutors, and envi- 
ous students, moving about the grounds. The young ladies 
— or perhaps I should say Miss Hammersmith — went off 
into raptures over the peaceful beauty of the quadrangle, 
surrounded by its sombre, solemn halls, recalling an age 
of plainer, more solid architecture, and the air of quiet 
;epose and thought which pervaded the whole place; 
which seemed, indeed, to Miss Hammersmith, to cast a 
glamour of greatness and scholarship over even the most 
rakish swell and the most languid dawdler that they met 
in their ramble. 

“O Mr. Goldie, what charming rooms !” said Miss 
Mabel, as they entered Goldie’s Holworthy rooms ; and 
she settled herself into a window-seat at once, making a 
pretty picture for a knot of juniors in the yard below on 
their way to afternoon class. She jumped down, and 
went about examining the countless curiosities and knick- 
knacks that the great boating-man had collected in his 
four-years’ life in Cambridge. 

“What is this? and this? and this? Why doesn’t 
somebody else talk? ” she asked eagerly. 

“Because we’re glad to hear you, and to see your en- 
joyment, my dear,” answered Mrs. Darby. “Tell her 
about the Prince of Wales’ picture, George.” 

“The Prince of Wales! Oh! what do you mean?” 
exclaimed Miss Mabel excitedly, after the manner of 
young girls at the mention of royalty. 

“ That picture by the door, his photograph, was given 
by the prince when he was out here last year,” said 
Goldie. 

“ Given to you ! The Prince of Wales gave it to you ! ” 

“ Oh, no ! McGregor had the rooms then. The prince 
was out visiting the universitv, and came up here to see a 
specimen college-room. He sent this out as a souvenir 
to Mac the next day. It is a transmittendum now.” 


HAMMERSMITH : 


m 


“ A what? ” asked Miss Mabel. 

“ A transmittendum ,” said Goldie. “ It goes with th* 
room ; sent down from one fellow to the other/ * 

“ And you can’t take it away?” 

“No.” 

“I should steal it if I were you,” said Miss Mabel. 
“ The idea ! ” 

“Here’s another transmittendum,” added Goldie, tak- 
ing up a blackened pipe from the mantel. 

“What a horrid dirty thing!” said Miss Haramer- 
smith. “ How can you keep it ! ” 

“ Custom,” answered Goldie. 

“ They do almost any thing in the name of custom here, 
my dear,” said Mrs. Darb}\ “ You’ll see some very odd 
customs on class-day.” 

“ And what’s that little badge? ” Miss Mabel asked. 

“ Pudding badge,” answered Goldie. 

“ What ! ” exclaimed she, her thoughts flying to kitch- 
ens and culinary matters. 

“My Hasty Pudding Club badge,” said Goldie, and 
explained the name and the origin of the badge as well 
as he was allowed to do by the awful authorities of the 
club. 

“ Have you one, Tom? ” she asked. 

“Yes,” answered he. “ Let’s go to my rooms, if you 
insist on seeing them.” 

The door had been opened many times during this 
short visit of the ladies, — sometimes after a preliminary 
knock and a “Come in” from Goldie; oftener without 
any announcement except the rapid running up stairs of 
the men, who came bursting into the room, unconscious 
of the visitors. The intruders invariably lifted their hats, 
with a “Beg pardon,” or “I’ll call again, George,” and 
vanished into the entry; till a certain caller — who an- 
nounced his approach by a species of musical gymnastics 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


457 


called by himself singing, though the air was quite un- 
discovered by his hearers — kicked at the door, by way 
of accompaniment, for a moment, and came singing into 
the room, radiant in summer finery. 

“ I beg pardon. — Why, Miss Mabel, you here ! Glad 
to see you in Cambridge.” 

“ How do you do, Mr. Ruddiman?” 

44 How d’ye do, ladies, how do? Excuse my yelling in 
the entry. Practising the class-song, you know,” said 
Ruddiman. 

“It’s a pretty air,” answered Miss Hammersmith. 
“ You’ve improved a great deal, Mr. Ruddiman.” 

4 4 Improved ! Ah ’ ’ — 

“ In singing,” added Miss Mabel. 

“Yes, just so,” said Ruddiman the relieved; and, as 
Hammersmith suggested going over to his rooms, Ruddi- 
man added, 44 Looking at rooms? Why shouldn’t you 
come round and look in upon my den? Proud to see 
you! Say you will? Good: I’ll just run round, and 
see that it’s all right. Left a crowd of men there using 
my ponies.” 

44 Using what? ” asked Miss Mabel. 

“My ponies, classical books, ahem! No, transla- 
tions, Miss Mabel, my translations. Have to use ’em 
now and then. Greek and Latin awfully hard this term ! 
By -by , then, for a while. You’ll come? — You will make 
them come, Tom?” Hammersmith nodded; and the 
lively young man ran off, and ejected his pony-friends, 
threw a number of yellow-covered novels into the coal • 
closet, tossed some Greek books carelessly on the table in 
their place, took down a picture or two, and shoved them 
under his bed ; and presently the visitors were upon him. 

“Excuse disorder! Fellows have been running riot 
here all day,” said Ruddiman. 

44 No apology is needed, Mr. Ruddiman,” answered 


458 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Miss Daity : “your rooms are very pretty and cheer- 
ful.” 

“Yes, very cheerful; can’t study in a dark, dingy 
room,” added Ruddiman. 

“ It must be very nice to be able to study and study all 
the time in such lovely rooms ! ” said Miss Hammersmith. 

“Yes, uncommon,” answered Ruddiman, who was 
accustomed to avail himself of that charming privilege 
quite sparingly, out of respect to maternal solicitude ; and 
presently Miss Hammersmith was peeping into his pretty 
bedroom, and saying, — 

“ Oh, how very nice ! ” 

“ Don’t,” said Tom. “ Come out of that, Mabel ! ” 

“Please, can’t I, Mr. Ruddiman?” she pleaded; and 
Ruddiman said, — 

“ Oh, certainly, certainly ! ” and the ladies went in, and 
stood quite bewildered, looking about at all the gay young 
gentleman’s costty appointments. They saw many flaming 
wall-pictures, which alarmed them not a little ; and Miss 
Mabel spied the small velvet shrine, — which Ruddiman 
had, of course, not removed, — with its still adored Miss 
Malachite in place ; and she exclaimed, — 

“Oh, how pretty, how very pretty, she is! Who is 
it?” 

“A — a friend of mine,” answered Ruddiman, blush- 
ing, and feeling quite proud, and yet leading the way to 
his parlor. 

“I’m afraid you’re a very inconstant man, Mr. Rud- 
diman,” said Miss Mabel. And the young fellow was 
stammering, “No, I’m not! not a bit of it!” when 
Goldie cried out, — 

“I say, Rud, what’s this dent in the wall?” looking 
mischievous. 

“Oh! that’s where I shied a boot at Waddle, and he 
ducked too quickly for me ; ” and Ruddiman was anxious 
to change the conversation. But Miss Darby said, — 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


459 


u What in the world does he mean, George? ” 

“ Oil ! Rud has an old boy that he calls Waddle, whom 
he is accustomed to pelt in the morning, when he comes 
in to light his fires/ ’ 

“What for? Is he very old? ” asked Miss Mabel. 

“Oh! just for fun,” answered Ruddiman. 

“ A custom? ” asked Miss Darby. 

“ My custom, yes,” said Ruddiman. “ It’s such jolly 
good sport to see the old fellow dance about and dodge, 
grinning like a monkey ! ” 

“How cruel!” said Miss Hammersmith. “What do 
you throw at him? ” 

“ Oh ! any thing that’s handy, — books and pillows, and 
boots and chairs, and such little things.” 

“ Do you ever hit him? ” 

“Used to at first, but he’s getting too spry for me 
now. I must get a new man, who isn’t up to the game.” 

“ Oh ! what are all these? ” asked Miss Hammersmith, 
pointing to the piles of opera-checks, and spindles of 
theatre-bills. 

“ A few opera-checks, and so on,” said Ruddiman. 

“ Who gave them to you? ” 

“ Gave them to me ! Bought ’em, I should say, when 
I went to the opera ! ” 

Miss Hammersmith was being wonderfully undeceived 
as to the studious habits of some, at least, of the young 
men of Cambridge, and called Ruddiman all sorts of 
Junny names as her eyes were opened more and more by 
the queer things she saw in his rooms. But her brother 
was hurrying her ; and she had barely time to glance at 
tbe marvellous array of curious things hung and plastered 
about the young gentleman’s mantel and walls as they 
moved off to Hammersmith’s rooms, where they went 
through the same performance of inquiring about every 
thing they saw, to the no small amusement of Mr. Tom 
and the placid Goldie. 


HAMMERSMITH : 


(GO 


44 There’s your Pudding badge ; and that’s your scratch- 
‘ace cup ; and that’s your spoon-oar : you see I’m already 
quite learned in college matters,” said Miss Mat el. 
“ But what are all these medals and things? ” 

“Oh, Glee Club, and Natural History, and Institute, 
and so on. Here’s one that I prize as much as any,” 
said Tom, “the <Z>. B. K . ; just managed to squeak in 
this term ” — 

“To do what?” asked Miss Mabel. “Dear Tom, 
why will you use so much slang? — Mother and I have 
had the greatest trouble in deciphering his letters, Mrs. 
Darby : half his words are never in the dictionary, I do 
assure you ! ” 

“But you’ll find them mighty good and expressive, 
when you know them,” said Goldie. “ Tom can’t hold a 
candle to some of the fellows ! ” 

“ Can’t do what? ” 

“Well, I don’t see but we shall have to taboo slang 
while the ladies are here, Tom,” said Goldie. 

“ Or give them a course of reading in 4 College Words 
and Customs,’ ” added Hammersmith. 

4 4 And what are these? Oh, how sweet!” said his 
sister, reaching up, and shaking a mass of ribbons and 
cords and bells, arranged on a pair of horns, a light jangle 
following the movement. 

44 German favors ; some that I’ve kept,” said Tom. 

44 Gracious ! ” was Miss Mabel’s onty reply as she 
turned, and gave her brother a merry look ; and she was 
again springing about the room, and examining things. 

44 What are those?” she asked, pointing to some 
crossed fods and masks above his mantel-mirror. 

“A set of foils for fencing. And those are some 
boxing-gloves that a man left me who died here last 
year.” 

44 Mr. Ladbroke? ” asked Mrs. Darby. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


461 


‘Yes, poor fellow! He insisted on my taking them 
the day before he died. A very warm-hearted fellow; 
very sad death/ ’ said Hammersmith. “There’s the bat 
that I made my great score at East Cambridge with last 
fall, Miss Darby, in cricket. Did you hear of it? ” 
“Yes,” said she, “I remember. Mr. Bcauolerk told 
me of it.” But she did not turn towards him, continuing 
to examine a number of imitation-cards that lay about on 
the mantel, glancing furtively, also, at a glorious photo- 
graph of the bare-backed ’Varsity crew of last year that 
hung at one side of the mirror. 

And so, after rummaging, as Tom had said they would 
do, through his various curiosities and souvenirs, trying his 
easy-chairs, and looking out upon the quadrangle, whose 
turf was like velvet in these last days of the summei 
term, the party was moving away, when Miss Hammer- 
smith, sitting cosily in a window-seat, said, — 

“I do declare ! this is too beautiful to leave, Mrs. 
Darby. I wish girls had such chances as these unappre- 
ciative boys have! They would know how to improve 
their opportunities if they had.” 

“Humph!” said her brother. “They’d do nothing 
but spoon with the professors, and ” — 

“ Do what? ” asked Miss Mabel. 

“A — what can you say for spoon, George? — You 
see, slang : there’s nothing that will just express it. Flirt, 
I suppose, is nearest. They’d do nothing but flirt and 
gossip, and criticise each other’s bonnets and toggery,” 
said Mr. Tom. 

“ For shame, Tom ! ” said Miss Mabel. “ Is that the 
;esult of your observation? I’m sorry for you, if it is : 
for I am sure we would do no such thing, but would show 
you that we are just as clever as boys, if we only had tne 
chances they have. Think of the way that girls have to 
go bobbing about from one school to another, instead of 
staying in one place long enough to learn something J J ’ 


462 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“We must go now, Miss Mabel, indeed we must,” 
urged Mrs. Darby. 

“Oh, please, Mrs. Darby! I want to lecture Tom. 
Won’t you let me stay a little while? He’s my brother, 
you know ; and I see he needs lecturing. He’s lived too 
long al. ne, — he’s lived too long alone here ; and he 
needs a little stirring up.” 

In spite of a protest of “Oh, nonsense!” from the 
young man in question, and Mrs. Darby’s announcement 
that they had just time to reach home before dinner, Miss 
Mabel carried her point. The others went off. She 
promised to follow almost immediately : and, as soon as 
they were well out of the entry, she closed the door, 
turned the key, took it out, and put it in her pocket. 

“What’s that for? What roguery are you up to now? ” 
asked Tom. “ I never saw a girl change so much in a 
year in all my life. I can hardly believe it’s you, after 
all, Mab.” And he sat down on his table, and swung 
his feet ; while Miss Mabel drew an easy-chair towards 
the door, sat down facing him, and said quietly, — 

“No roguery, Tom; but I want to know what it all 
means. What roguery have you been committing, you 
bad boy? ” 

“ Nonsense ! What do you mean? ” 

“You can call it nonsense; I’ve no doubt it is: but 
I shall wait till you explain matters and things entirely 
to my satisfaction ; then I will open the door. I’m very 
comfortable : I hope you are. I shall stay here till you 
explain it.” 

“ What do you mean by ‘ it ’ ? ” 

“Now, Tom, don’t be silly: it isn’t at all becoming. 
I’m not blind. I’ve been here a day, and I know that 
something has happened : what is it? ” 

“ Has she been talking to you? ” asked Tom. 

“ Whom do you mean by ‘ she,’ sir? ” 


HIS HARVARD DA^S. 


463 


“ Oh, come now ! Has Miss Darby been telling you of 
our quarrel? ” 

“Tom, Tom, dear Tom! what an extraordinary ques- 
tion ! Do you think a girl like Miss Darby could \ ossibly 
talk about such a thing ? It is precisely because she has 
not mentioned you in any way whatever since I arrived, 
and because she has hardly written your name once in 
all the letters that I’ve had from her for the last year, 
and because I happen to know certain things that she 
said and did at Worcester last year, — well, it’s because 
of a good many things, that I say I know something has 
happened. You know it too, and will not tell me.” 

“ What did she say and do at Worcester last year? ” 
asked Tom. And as each had apparently some news for 
the other, and as Miss Mabel’s only desire was to tell 
Tom what she knew, provided she could have a fair 
exchange of commodity, there was no great difficulty in 
arranging a barter. So while Tom kept insisting that he 
would never tell her every thing, and men kept knocking 
at his door, and going away disappointed, Miss Mabei 
contrived to draw from him a pretty full account of the 
last year’s work, and the Waverley Woods finale. 

In return, she gave him a minute description of the few 
days at Worcester last year, — Miss Darby’s enthusiasm 
and interest in a certain boating-man on the day of the 
race ; the pressure of the hand which she had given Miss 
Mabel so man}’ times during the exciting race (and which 
signifies so much among young women) ; the rosebud by 
the lakeside, in the ball-room, and in the little glass after 
their crooning talk that night ; Miss Darby’s very, very 
slight inadvertence in the speech cf hers that evening, 
about class-day (“ he — your brother will be so glad ! ”) 

- — yes, and a hundred other small matters, which the 
voung sister could remember, and which had given her 
Ohe greatest pleasure in the world. 


464 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Tom, for his part, sat listening to all that she said with 
a, pleased wonder and hesitating credulity, hopping down 
now and then to pace the room excitedly, occasionally 
breaking out with, “ Come, come, Mabel, I tell you we 
must go ! it’s getting very late ! ” and yet being brought 
back every time to the discussion by his imperturbable 
young sister sitting quietly in his easy-chair, guarding the 
door. For this young woman, who had been dreaming 
c»:'ch pretty dreams for her beloved brother ever since that 
festive Worcester day of last year ; who had discovered, 
as only young women can discover, the secret that Ham- 
mersmith himself was not courageous enough to capture ; 
and who had gone on building such gorgeous air-castles 
to be presented to her brother and Miss Darby for occu - 
pancy, — this little woman had seen, at her very first 
arrival in Cambridge, that something was wrong. She 
had seen that the foundations of all her fine castles were 
likely to be utterly overthrown ; and she had feared that it 
was through some silly misunderstanding or mistake of 
somebody, she could not guess who. Never for once doubt- 
ing the correctness of her own surmises and intuitions, 
— what woman will ? — she set out, with the customary 
Hammersmith perseverance, to investigate the matter for 
herself ; to see if the headstrong Tom was not, after all, 
standing at the door of his own castle, and blocking the 
entrance of his queen, all through some terrible mistake, 
perhaps through some slander of rival powers. 

Whatever may have been her main reason, she was 
bound not to let Tom out of his room until she heard 
the truth from him. There she sat, a pretty little jailer, 
tapping the arm of the chair with her dainty gloved hand, 
examining and cross-examining the prisoner at the bar, 
smiling roguishly when he refused to testify, glancing 
unconcernedly about the room when he was silent, and 
u Together conducting her investigation in a charming 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


466 


manner quite irresistible. So, at least, Mr. Tom found it *, 
for the result of a very few minutes’ talk was, as has been 
said, that he disclosed to his sister much of the secret 
history of the last j T ear, — Breese’s reported engagement, 
his own devotion to Boston society, Breese’s final confes- 
sion to him before leaving, his own endeavor to get back 
into Miss Darby’s good graces, his quarrel in the Waver- 
iey Woods. What this quarrel was, however, just what 
had been said and done, he would not say. 

“ No, Mabel, confound it ! I can’t tell you every thing : 
that’s flat. We had a quarrel: that’s all there is to it. 
I don’t pretend to know how it came about ; I don’t 
pretend to know how I offended her : but I did, and she 
told me to go away. I went. And I confess I don’t know 
anything, — whether she’s engaged to Breese, after all, 
or to Mr. Beauclerk, or is meaning to be a sister of chari- 
ty, or what? I believe young women were sent into the 
world to torture young men, and were never meant to be 
consistent. That’s my position.” 

44 But what did you say? and what did she do? ” asked 
Miss Mabel. And, after much hesitation, Tom was made 
to disclose the purport of his words to Miss Darbj^. Miss 
Mabel looked serious, but continued, — 

44 And now what did she do ? No matter what she said : 
what did she do? ” 

And when Tom had explained what she had done, — how 
ahe had dismounted from her horse and thrown herself on 
the ground, ordering him away ; how he had gone, and yet 
waited to escort her back to Cambridge ; and how thor- 
oughly provoked and incensed she had appeared through 
it all, — Miss Mabel at length laughed, and said, — 

44 Well, Tom, you are the silliest boy I ever saw in all 
my life ! ” 

44 Why? What on earth could she mean, if she didn’t 
mean that I was to go away, and not bother her? ” 


466 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“ Mean J Why, she meant that you were cowardly and 
weak in talking to her as } T ou did. She meant that you 
were manoeuvring to get her to disclose her own feelings, 
(as I believe you were, you naughty boy !) instead of 
decliring your own first, like a man. She feared her 
manner had told you that she loved you ; and, of course, 
she was incensed and ashamed, as any girl of spirit would 
have been. She told you to go away, that you might not 
see her tears : tliat’s the reason she kept saying, ‘ Oh that 
I should have come to this ! ’ And you ought to have 
known it, if you had not been as blind as a bat, as all 
men are ! I don’t blame her in the least ; and I think 
you behaved shamefully ! ” 

“ Hang it ! I only gave her a chance to let me know 
if I was mistaken.” 

“O Tom, Tom, how silly! how unutterably weak! 
Some girls might take advantage of such a chance, as 
you call it ! — what a way to put it ! Some girls might 
be willing to let a man know that they loved him, and 
not be ashamed of it ; but I’m sure Miss Darby is not 
one of them. I know you would be as sorry as any one, 
if you thought she were. A girl should die rather than 
let a man know that she loves him, unless he tells her his 
own love first.” 

“ I’m not so sure of that,” said Tom. 

“ Of course you’re not, because you are weak, as Miss 
Darby says, and don’t understand girls. Tom, if a man 
loves a woman, let him tell her so simply, frankly, hon- 
estly : if he does not, let him hold his tongue. What 
I want to impress on you, in this case, is the great mis- 
take you made in talking to her of your feeling for her. 
You have no right to talk in this half-way style with a 
girl, and then expect her to make her own feelings known 
to you. No high-bred girl will stand it; and it is un 
worthy of you, Tom, — it is unworthy of you. Imagine 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


467 


your frier d Breese doing such a weak thing as you have 
done ! Didn’t you tell me that he went bravely up, and 
told her he loved her, and then bore his fate like a man? ” 

44 Yes ; but he was, in a measure, forced to do it by the 
rumors that were about, and were causing remark.” 

4 4 And you hadn’t the courage to do as he had done, 
unless you were forced to it by some outside circum- 
stance? ” asked Miss Mabel. 

“ Oh, don’t put it in that way ! ” urged Tom. 44 I tell 
you, Mabel, a great many things have happened, that you 
know nothing about, and that I can’t explain, — a great 
many things in my life here in Cambridge. They made 
me suspicious of everybody, — suspicious of Breese, of 
myself, of Miss Darby, everybody. Don’t ask me about 
them.” 

44 I’ve no idea of asking you about them, Tom! I’m 
not going to bother you any more. I’m going home. I 
have told you all that I know and believe and hope, and 
I’m very much disappointed in you. Yes, Tom, you are 
the most disappointing man I ever saw ! ” 

44 Ho, ho ! What do you know about men, Miss Sweet- 
% Sixteen? ” 

“Well, I don’t need to be so very old to understand 
men! ” she said, bowing her head several times, and look- 
ing peculiarly defiant, with the jaunty red feather in her 
hat emphasizing her words. 44 They are the easiest to 
read and understand of any thing I ever saw ! And I’ve 
»-ead you, you cowardly boy, and I’m fearfully disappointed 
a you ! ” 

She arose, took the key from her pocket, and was un- 
locking the door, when Tom rushed up to her, and put his 
arms around her, saying eagerly, — 

44 Well, well, my little puss, don’t be angry with me! 
I confess I’m a fool in these matters, but I will not be 
any longer; ” and he kissed her Then, holding her at 


468 


HAMMERSMITH : 


arm’s-length, he said, “ But you will allow' that you aio 
all sphinxes, and very hard to make out? ” looking down 
into her eyes, and putting his head on one side. 

“Perhaps we are,” she said. “But Heaven made us 
so; and j'ou would not have us otherwise, would you? 
Come now ! would you, Tom? Would you have us wear 
our hearts on our sleeves, and run about telling such silly, 
cowardly boys as you, that we loved them? ” 

“ No, I think not. But don’t you pile on the agony 
sometimes, and mystify a fellow just for the fun of the 
thing? ” 

“Sometimes they deserve it,” she answered, putting 
the key in the door. 

“I suppose the}' do,” he said ruefully, shaking his 
head. He kissed her again ; and they went out, and 
walked rapidly to Mrs. Darby’s. 

Tom felt a bit conscious, as he passed students here 
and there, returning from supper. But Mabel did not 
appreciate that the sight of a young woman like herself, 
issuing from the quadrangle at this time of the evening, 
was somewhat anomalous. She thought it the most natu- 
ral thing in the world that she should be seen walking 
an} 7 where and everywhere with Tom : wasn’t he her 
brother ? and hadn’t she a right to take his arm if she 
ehose ? Why did those men stare so ? 

“ His sister? ” asked one man of another. 

“ Don’t know. I can’t pretend to keep track of Ham- 
mersmith. Ma}' be his sister; may be some other fel- 
low’s.” 

“ Come up for class-day, perhaps. A very clean step- 
pei,” remarked the first man, } T oung Tilbury, devoted to 
the turf. 

“Won’t you come in to dinner, Mr. Hammersmith?’ 
asked Mrs. Darby, as the two appeared walking briskly up 
the walk. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


469 


“No, thanks, Mrs. Darby! I’ve a committee-meeting 
to attend at seven. Gracious ! I shall have hardly time to 
reach it. Sorry I kept Mabel after your dinner-horn’: 
we had a little matter to talk over.” 

“ Some other time, then,” said Mrs. Darby. 

“ Thanks ! ” and he ran back to his club-table, took a 
hasty meal, and appeared at the committee-meeting in 
question, which was called to arrange various matters of 
importance in reference to class-day. 


m 


HAMMERSMITH : 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE WORLD IS SET HUMMING FOR HAMMERSMITH. 

“ With time and patience the leaf of the mulherry-tree becomes satin.” 

From the Arabic 

“How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use? 

A hope, to sing by gladly? ... or a fine 
Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse? 

A shade, in which to sing ... of palm or pine ? 

A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose.” 

Mrs. Browning. 

rpHIS interview with his persistent little sister was 
-L several days old, and Hammersmith had pondered 
and speculated on it with an effect presently to be de- 
scribed, when he and Miss Darby were again on horse- 
back, riding together for the first time since that luckless 
evening of two weeks before. 

It was a silent ride, as silent almost as that black 
leturn-ride on the unhappy evening of which they both 
scarcely dared to think. They talked somewhat, but of 
indifferent matters, chopping off the heads of subjects, 
after the fashion of young people, and avoiding, as if by 
^ommon consent, all themes that could in any way remind 
iliem by remotest implication of the one thing of which 
they were both thinking. 

Hammersmith did not ask Miss Darby which road -he 
would take, but guided the ride himself in the direction 
of the same fatal Waverley Grove. 

u 1 don’t like to go in there, Mr. Hammersmith,” said 
Miss Darby, as Tom was entering the wood by the same 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


471 


narrow opening in the stone wall; and she shook her 
head. 

“ Please, Miss Darby ! ” He looked infinitely entreat- 
ing ; and she went in. 

They dismounted. Hammersmith tied his own reins to 
the horn of Miss Darby’s saddle, retaining her reins in 
his hand. 

“ See ! ” he said : “ they have come up since we were 
here.” And he added to himself, “ I hope they are a 
good omen,” as he picked a bunch of violets from under 
the edge of the rock against wliich Miss Darby had leaned 
the last time they were here. “Will you have them?” 
She put them in the bosom of her riding-habit, and they 
sat down. 

Silence, broken only by the fight wind in the tree-tops, 
the chattering of a couple of squirrels running along the 
branches, and the pawing of Hammersmith’s horse Baldy, 
restless as his master himself for this suspense to be over. 

“Whoa, Baldy! still, sir!” said Hammersmith; and 
he rose and patted him. He came back and sat down. 

“ Miss Darby,” he said, “ do you remember what you 
said the last day I went to your hospital with you, — about 
the difficulty you would have in choosing between the 
world and the little castaways, as you called them, if you 
had to make the choice ? ’ ’ 

“ I had forgotten that I said that ; but I meant to say 
that I love them, and am never happier than when taking 
care of them,” she answered. 

Silence again, which a careful investigator might have 
di icovered was just perceptibly broken by T a quicker breath- 
ing from Mr. Tom, caused by a fight tattoo under his 
waistcoat, most unusual in the placid young fellow. 

“ I know an old fellow that’s m a very bad way, and 
wants to get taken care of,” he added. 

“ But we don’t take old men,” she answered. 


472 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“ Couldn’t you admit just this one?” he asked. “ It 
would be a mercy,” he added. 

“ I’ll submit it to Miss Fayerweather and Miss Sum- 
merdale, if you wish,” she said. 

“ But it isn’t for them to decide,” he said. 

“ Certainly it is. I never decide such a questioc 
alone.” 

“But this is a question for you to decide alone,” he 
said ; and he called to his horse to be quiet. 

“ What do you mean? ” she asked. “ An old gentle- 
man to be taken in, and I to decide it alone ! ” 

“ Young ladies generally decide such questions alone,” 
ne said. But she continued, without apparently hearing 
him, — 

“ Who is he ? WTiere is he ? Is he very badly off ? ” 

“ He’s in a terrible way, I assure you. He’s in Cam- 
bridge. No ! — he’s in Belmont. ’ ’ 

“ How old is he? ” 

“ He’s about twenty-two. Is that too old ? ” 

She had been shaking her head at the general proposi- 
tion ; and, when he said this, she opened her eyes wide, 
and drew a quick breath, and presently went on shaking 
her head again, as Hammersmith continued, — 

“It is not too old? You know who he is? He loves 
you, Miss Darby ; and will you take him in? ” he asked, 
with charming ambiguity. 

Her head fell forward on her breast. Then she lifted 
her face full to his ; and the next minute his arms were 
about her, and he was kissing her sweet, warm lips. 

Then things were said, and things were done, which 1 
am sure the bending foliage had never heard or seen 
before. For the little leaves that had so recently burst 
upon the world shook their sides, and made light merri- 
ment or light applause above their heads. The sun came 
peeping in under the greenwood with an envious glance 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


473 


A.nd the horses, standing with drooped heads, loose now, 
and free to run if they chose, pointed their ears at the 
pretty scene, adding a picturesqueness of their own. 

O buds and flowers ! O waving green banners and warm 
breath of summer breezes, what a different sight is this 
to-day! Smile, and kiss your benediction upon him; 
for he has had a hard and troublesome Hammersmith 
battle to fight, with himself, with circumstances, with 
other men, before this happy day could come, and he be 
holding his love within his arms. 

And presently they were in the saddle again, walking 
up the road, which lay flooded with sunshine. 

“Isn’t it all beautiful!” said Miss Darby, after they 
had gone a short distance, with loose rein, in silence. 

“ Isn’t it ! ” answered Hammersmith, and added, after 
a moment, 4 4 If I had only known this all the time ! ” 

44 Known what, Mr. Hammersmith? ” 

44 Mr. Hammersmith ! Indeed ! ” 

“What! — why! — oh, I can’t, all at once! It is so 
sudden. Mr. — well, Tom, then.” 

44 Good for you ! ” said Tom. 44 Didn’t hurt }nu, did 
it, Ellen? See how easily I do it ! ” 

44 No, but it seems so funny ! What is it that you wish 
you had known? ” 

44 Why, that you — that I might have — that for ah 
these months — oh, you know what I mean ! ” said Tom. 

44 Don’t flatter yourself,” answered she. 44 1 never 
cared a straw for you till five minutes ago, you vain man, 
when you looked so unutterably miserable, begging for 
that poor old gentleman. I couldn’t resist such a plain- 
tive appeal.” 

44 ’Pon honor? ” 

44 Of course I never cared an} 7 thing for you till five 
minutes ago. The idea ! ” she said. 44 Perhaps it is six 
minutes now ! But do you know what I promised you, 
what you asked me just now? ” 


474 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“ Wliy, you promised me that you — you said that you 
would always — fact is, you didn’t say much of any 
thing,” said Hammersmith. 

“You asked me if I would ‘ take you in.’ ‘ Take you 
in ’ ! I shall be sure to do it ; and so you will have no 
right h > complain of any ill treatment I may give you, 
you hasty man ! No, never ! ” 

“I shall never need to, I’m sure,” he answered, with 
mingled gravity and mirth. “ But I was using the meta- 
phor of the hospital, and speaking to you as a sister of 
charity.” 

“ That’s very fine. But you cannot help it now : you 
cannot take back your words ! And I have your authori- 
ty to take you in to my heart’s content,” she said. 

“ Certainly, to your heart’s content, if you put it in 
that way,” replied Tom gleefully. “ Shall we have a 
spin? ” 

And with more such happy, sentimental badinage, — 
which need not be set down in this place, — and many 
delicious, silent pauses, they rode home ; Hammersmith 
thinking of nothing but this young being by his side, who 
had promised to give her life into his keeping ; Miss Darby 
in a strange new role for a sister of charity, riding through 
country-lanes with a knot of violets on her bosom, and a 
handsome young student turning beaming eyes upon her. 
And the young student, indeed, looked different, far dif- 
ferent, from the poor old gentleman for whom he had been 
pleading, who was in a very bad way, forsooth, and likely 
to die if be were not taken care of. 

Heaven send peace and joy to them, and fulfilment of 
all their happy plans, which sprang up from that day, as 
the violets had sprung from their shady nook in the woods ! 
Heaven speed all y oung fellows like Hammersmith in their 
suits, and guide them to the proper charitable sister, who 
?an set all the world humming with joy for them bv a siu> 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


475 


pie smile ! And Heaven teach them to fall down on their 
knees, and thank God for the rarest blessing, the sweetest 
consolation, that He can bestow ! 

The final festivities and exercises of th« academic year 
were drawing near. 

Parties were being given throughout the length and 
breadth of the university town, — one of the first at Mrs. 
Darby’s, where a bit of interesting news was announced ; 
and it would be a pathetic chronicle, were I to exhibit 
in this place a tenth part of the grand vows and impres- 
sive sentiment that these occasions evoked from the mighty 
seniors sitting in tete-a-tete with their fair Cambridge 
friends. 

The Glee Club concert came on an evening or two 
after the arrival of Mrs. Hammersmith ; and Hammer- 
smith brought his mother and sister, and his brother 
Dick (now a fine young stripling of seventeen summers 
or so) , with the entire Darby family, to enjoy the music 
of this last appearance of his with the dear old club, — 
the last except the informal singing of class-day evening, 
and the various occasions when he may return as a gradu- 
ate, please God, to add his voice to those of cordial under- 
graduates. 

It was a great success, this concert. The dear mother 
could hardly keep from tears as she saw her handsome 
boy (who was growing so like his poor father every day) 
singing his ponderous part up there among the second 
basses, and smiling down upon the group of his friends. 
He came down in the intermission and spoke with them ; 
^nd Miss Mabel exclaimed, — 

“ O Tom, that was beautiful, that Marschner Sere- 
nade ! Won’t you give the waltz, if we encore you? ” 

“ Perhaps so,” said Tom, smiling ; and he leaned ovei 
Ko Miss Darby, who said, — 


476 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“ You’re in splendid voice to-night, Tom. Do give th« 
waltz ! It’s pretty old, I know ; but it’s always good, and 
y our mother and Mabel will like it.” And she blushed 
prettily, conscious, no doubt, that many eyes were turned 
towards her as she talked with the man to whom she had 
just become engaged. The second part began, and Ham- 
mersmith went back to the stage. 

The encore was given, the applause being swollen in 
no small measure by the clamors of the hearty “ Duke,” 
who had come in, and was seated in the aisle by the Ham- 
mersmiths and Darbys ; and Miss Mabel put her hand 
again into Miss Darby’s, as on the day of the Worcester 
regatta, and said softly, — 

“ Dear Ellen, I never was so happy in all my life ! ” 
How many happiest days had she already had in her brief 
life, I wonder. 

“You will be, some day, Mabel,” she answered; and 
the two contrasted beauties — Miss Darby the fair and the 
blue-eyed, Miss Hammersmith, with the dark hair and 
coloring and the brilliant eyes of her race — made a pretty 
picture to the young fellows of the Glee Club and the Pie- 
rian, looking down from the low stage. I doubt not that 
not a few of them, and not a few young and old boys in 
the audience, regarded Hammersmith that evening with 
envious admiration, as they saw him singing there in the 
prime of his young manhood, honored by his classmates, 
honored more by the trust and love of the beautiful young 
creature before whose lovely eyes he was singing his fare- 
well to college-life. 

The college societies, too, were giving their last enter- 
tainments, holding their last full meetings of the term, 
and Hammersmith was kept busy, busier than almost any 
one else, by the many duties that his chief marshalship, 
and his general supervision of class-day arrangements, 
brought him. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


477 


Hasty Pudding “ Strawberry Night ” and “ Seniors' 
Benefit ’ ’ had come off ; and all the ties that bound Ham- 
mersmith and his friends to the old society were drawn 
firmer and closer by the Warm brotherly feeling which 
these gatherings of graduate and undergraduate members 
called forth. 

The final examinations are over, and the young men 
mentioned in this chronicle have all passed, with various 
degrees of honor ; only Rudcliman the bold having any 
great difficulty, which consisted in his barely “ squeaking 
through” in history, as he expressed it. Provident 
tradesmen are already presenting their little bills with 
apologies, and their big bills with eagerness. The turf in 
the quadrangle has been mowed and rolled in preparation 
for the class-day dances, till it is as smooth as turf can 
be ; kept unmolested, moreover, by means of numerous 
prohibitory placards, and the constant call of “Off the 
grass!” from jealous seniors. Under-classmen returning 
from the river and cricket arc regarded by the great 
senior, with his eyes already on the larger field to which 
he is hastening, as belonging to a younger world, a differ- 
ent existence from himself. Parents and friends, gradu- 
ates and strangers from a distance, are already filling and 
overflowing the modest Cambridge accommodations. Our 
young friend Malachite — who has been forever carrying 
about mighty calf volumes of the law, and devoting to 
moot courts and law lectures what little time he could 
spare from the cultivation of a pair of mustaches, just 
visible to the naked eye after the lapse of a year — now 
bursts forth resplendent for the gorgeous festivities ap- 
proaching. Local belles, and those from a distance who 
propose to outshine them, and dazzle the all-embracing 
student eye, have collected marvels of adornment and 
brilliant trapping most wonderful to behold. Prayers are 
offered plentifully to the gods of the weather for smiling 


178 


HAMMERSMITH: 


skies on the day of which all Cambridge is thinking, and 
to which a hundred men or more have been looking for- 
ward for the four years past. 

Oration, poem, ode, class-song, every thing, is ready for 
the crowning festivity of class-day, — beloved of students, 
a period of unbounded bliss for the youth and maidens 
of the neighborhood, a day of unbridled riot for local 
urchins hovering on the outskirts of feast and revelry. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


479 


CHAPTER XXXI 


CLASS-DAY AND A TALK OF SPURS. 

" Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, 

She is my life, and my goods, and my gold.” 

Long fellow, from the German of Simon Dacil 

M Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake 
The old bitterness again, and break 
The low beginnings of content! ” — Tennyson. 



HAT meagre description can do justice to the 


V V abounding gayety, the full, throbbing life, the 
buoyant festivities, and the deep undercurrent of earnest 
thought and feeling, of a class-day, — the last, the only 
elaborate, social entertainment of the undergraduate before 
he rushes forth into the thick of the outer world ! How 
the old graduate, unless his life has been sad and gloomy 
indeed, looks back with kindling pleasure and a certain 
mournful tenderness at the sufficient happiness of those 
earlier entertainments, or, rather, that all-important, long- 
expected entertainment which marked the term of his own 
academic course ! 

And the charming Amelias, the lovely Marys, the radi- 
ant Octavias, and the thoroughly enslaving Rebeccas, that 
annually, in ever recurrent waves of sentiment and ro- 
mance, sail in upon the quiet university town on this 
festal day, — the pen must be dipped in colors of sunset, 
that can hope to paint their varied charms ! 

How they take possession of easy-chairs, henceforth 
consecrated, and blossom out in window-seats ! How 
they explore and exclaim over the startling wonders, the 


480 


HAMMERSMITH : 


unique adornments, of the ancient rooms ! How they 
penetrate, with proper escort, even into the mysterious 
realms of the Hasty Pudding and other societies, and 
ask many unanswerable questions about the marvellous 
things that they see ! How becomingly sad and surprised, 
and entirely charming, they look, as they listen to the 
apocryphal stones related of college-life by their imagina- 
tive gentlemen-in-waiting ! What reprehensible glances 
they thru'? at many a stalwart young fellow, who has never 
blushed befbre in his life! And how! — but, Heavens! 
I shall never get on, if I linger longer in their detaining 
company to the neglect of graver personages. 

Quieter, graver groups of mothers and fathers, and 
other relatives, serve as a background to this merry young 
life. Tlio university town is a familiar spot to many of 
them ; to many it is an Ultima Thule which they have 
only contrived to reach this once, out of honor to their 
darling boy’s graduation, their homespun boy, who has 
blossomed so famously since he came to this brilliant hot- 
house of learning, — a day to be marked with a white 
stone in the annals of the family. 

Graduates on this day, as on the quieter commence- 
ment soon to follow, pace the yard, or climb the old famil- 
iar stairs, musingly eloquent of the splendid days of their 
3'outh, and pointing out to their friends the while the 
landmarks of those bygone times. “ There’s my old 
freshman room, in the corner of Stoughton,” says one, in- 
dicating it with his cane. Says another, “ There’s where 
the Med. Fac. blew up a couple of sophomores in theii 
beds, — there in the top of Massachusetts. Some treach- 
er} r or malpractice : we never could find out just what.” 
And another, leaning heavily on the arm of a younger 
graduate, says, looking up at a Holworthy room, “ In 
that room, Hal, on my class-day, your mother — God bless 
her ! she was not } r our mother then — first let me know 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


481 


that I had a chance of winning her. Women were women 
then, my boy ; and the army of men that she had at her 
feet was quite put to rout and demoralized when I carried 
her off before their very eyes. It seems but yesterday, 
though Heaven knows it is forty years since ! ” 

And the list of orators and poets of class-day, a copy 
of which is before me as I write, with a mass of college- 
papers, college-verses, examination-lists, themes, society- 
notices, and the like, — with what a pathetic interest you 
examine the long line reaching back a hundred years now ! 

How many a name has confirmed its early promise and 
the correctness of the undergraduate judgment! How 
many a man that started out brilliant, accomplished, full- 
freighted, honored by his class with this or the other class- 
day distinction, has felt the fires of genius gradually dying 
out, and lived on into a flickering old age, supported by 
the thought of his youthful fame ! This man gave no 
prophecy in his plain college oration of the world- wide 
fame that awaited him as a silver-tongued orator, per- 
suader of thousands. That one set all his audience, his 
classmates above all, ablaze with the fervor of his parting 
words, and seemed about entering on a career of glory 
and usefulness unapproachable : a lonely grave in a dis- 
tant country holds all that was perishable in that com- 
manding presence ; and the sweet spring birds sing carols 
about the spot. 

The gods that preside over the weather, the goddesses 
that preside over beautiful girls and captivating toilets, 
had smiled propitious ; and Mr. Tom’s class-day promised 
to be as gay and happy as any that the old universit}' 
town had ever seen. 

The exercises in the church, preluded by the old-time 
“rush” of undergraduates, which alarmed Miss Mabel 
Hammersmith not a little ; the oration by Albemarle, 


482 


HAMMERSMITH : 


glowing with patriotism, tender with happy reminiscences, 
inspiring with lofty exhortation ; the poem of Oliver, 
sparkling with brilliant sallies, chronicling the glorious 
victories and the famous record of the class ; the singing of 
the class ode; the benediction by the beloved doctor, — 
all are over, and the crowd is scattering for the merrier 
festivities of the quadrangle. 

“God bless you, dear Tom ! ” said Mrs. Hammersmith, 
as her son came up to her in the church. “ It was very 
fine.” 

“Splendid oration, wasn’t it?” asked Tom. “That 
was to have been delivered by Breese, you know, mother,” 
he added in a low voice, audible only to her. But Miss 
Darby felt what he was saying, and smiled a sad sort of 
smile upon him ; and Tom gave his arm to his mother, 
leading the way to the college-buildings. 

“ Bravo, Tom ! ” said his uncle Gayton, following, with 
Mrs. Darby on his arm. “You look quite the field-mar- 
shal, with your baton , and all ! ” 

“ A field-marshal in evening dress? ” asked Tom. 

“Well, undress-uniform, let us say,” answered his 
uncle ; and the two young ladies, following with Goldie, 
did not care by what name their beloved Tom was called ; 
for they knew that he was the handsomest, the best, the 
most satisfactory, of brothers and lovers. They said as 
much to each other with the: r eyes, and tripped across 
the street in their dainty shoes and delicate raiment, a 
pretty spectacle for the files of undergraduates and towns- 
people through which they passed. 

Caterers and skips, and countless attendants, had been 
holding high carnival for hours, now, in the old college- 
halls, opening hampers, setting tables, decorating rooms, 
and making ready the feasts. Local youngsters, annually 
scenting the class-day odors from afar, had hovered about 
the outskirts of preparation, capturing a straggling tidbit. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


*83 


or receiving damaged luxuries with a thankful grin. The 
plain college-rooms were transformed quite be} T ond recog- 
nition by gay festoons and bouquets, and the showy, 
amply- stocked tables. So that our young people were 
entirely surprised when they entered the rooms of Ham- 
mersmith’s and Goldie’s and others’ “ spreads ” in middle 
Holworthy ; and Miss Mabel again made herself the 
mouthpiece of the wonder that they all felt. 

“ Mr. Goldie, I believe }*ou have witches, or fairies, or 
something of the sort, in the university ! ” she said. “ I 
am meeting surprises and funny things on every hand, 
wherever I go. I believe it is all magic ! I believe your 
old halls are enchanted ! ” 

“ They are to-day, Miss Mabel,” the wicked old boat- 
ing man answered. But Miss Hammersmith said, “ Why, 
Mr. Goldie ! This from } r ou ! Well, }*ou are improving 
in compliments ! No wonder you blush ! ” 

But Goldie said, “ ‘ Blush,’ not a bit of it ! Red cur- 
tain, don’t j^ou see? — Won’t you have some salad? ” 

“ Thanks, I’m almost famished,” she answered. Gol- 
die and Hammersmith, Oliver and Fa}'erweather, who 
were associated in this “ spread,” continued to receive 
their throngs of guests, and forage for them, settling the 
old ladies in comfortable seats, exchanging light badinage 
with the young ones, and putting everybody at ease by 
their cheerful manner and ready tact. 

The same scene was enacting throughout the entire 
quadrangle and at many a boarding-house hard by. The 
envies were packed with blooming girls, moving from one 
“ spread ” to another. Younger brothers, like our young 
Dick Hammersmith, were gorging themselves on the un- 
usual delicacies ready at their hands. Servants were mak- 
ing their difficult way through the crush, poising dangerous 
dishes unsteadily aloft. The windows overflowed with 
muslin and tarlatan and tulle, and a thousand bright bits 


484 


HAMMERSMITH : 


of color ; and I do not wonder that the elms outside rose 
and fell in gentle whispers of pleasure, looking on at 
all this radiance and freshness and beauty. How many 
such battalions of happy youth and maidens have they 
looked down upon before, and, please God, shall continue 
to protect with their sheltering shade, on those too brief 
days of college festivity! Who can tell how soon they 
may look down upon battalions of “sweet girl graduates ” 
of Harvard pacing along their leaf}' avenues ? 

Ruddiman, Freemantle, Albemarle, and many otheio, 
had arranged their entertainments outside the quadrangle. 
Ruddiman’ s, in especial, was sumptuous to an alarming 
degree, the forerunner of the lavish extravagance with 
which Harvard men of to-day are familiar. 

Crowds of common friends had passed from these 
“ spreads ” to Hammersmith’s and others’ within the quad- 
rangle. Crowds from the quadrangle had gone to those 
outside, Miss Darby and Miss Hammersmith, with the 
uncle and Tom, among the latter. When the feasting had 
been carried on for an hour or two, and the young ladies 
had returned to Goldie’s rooms, Miss Mabel broke out, — 

“Now, Tom, what comes next? I’m insatiable, you 
see. I mean to see every thing and do every thing that I 
possibly can ! ” 

“ Why, Mabel ! ” said her mother. 

“ Well, I do,” she answered. “ It is my first class- 
da}', and it may be my last, — unless Dick improves more 
in his studies than he has improved the last year.” 

“Humph!” exclaimed Dick the indignant, from be- 
hind a dish of strawberries. 

“ Oh, the Hasty Pudding ! ” said Miss Mabel, going up 
to Tom. 

“What is it you want, Mabel? Haven’t you eaten 
enough? Hasty Pudding!” said her mother, in some 
alarm at the hidden possibilities of the banquet. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


486 


“ I don’t want any thing, mother dear ; ” and she went 
over, and kissed the pale widow in her chair by the win- 
dow. “ But Tom promised to show us the Hasty Pudding 
Club rooms, and I want so much to see them ! they are 
so awfully mysterious about the club, Tom and Geor — 
Mr. Goldie. And you must take us up, Tom ! ” 

“ But you’ll have to climb three flights of stairs, and be 
blindfolded, and have your hands tied behind your back, 
and recite three verses from the Koran, and promise never 
to eat chocolate-creams, and ” — 

“ Oh, nonsense, Tom ! — Must we do all that, Mr. Gol- 
die? ” asked Miss Hammersmith. 

“ Not allowed to say,” answered the mysterious fellow. 
“ Will take you up, if you’ll run the risk. Girls have 
been known to live through it — sometimes ! ” 

“ Come, Ellen ; come, Tom,” said Miss Mabel. “ Can’t 
uncle go? ” 

“ Bless you, yes ! ” answered the “ Duke.” “ I’m an 
honor arius, ex post facto tempus fugit concordia discors 
seges votis respondet crocodilicos , at your service, my 
lady! ” 

“You’re all making fun of me, I do believe!” said 
she. “ It isn’t fair ; is it, mother? ” And she appealed 
to her mother in mock gravity of despair. 

Presently the four young people were mounting the 
Stoughton stairway, up which legions of trembling neo- 
phytes have climbed before and since ; while the older 
people remained in Goldie’s rooms, looking out upon the 
swarming yard, and chatting pleasant!} 7 . 

The young ladies did not find any thing terrific, or fear- 
fully mysterious, in the famous Pudding rooms ; and 
though Tom made a great show of secrecy at the door, 
insisting on blindfolding his sister, and bringing out an 
old volume that he declared was the Koran, Miss Darby 
nut a stop to his brotherly pranks and, laughing heartily 
at Miss Mabel’ s perplexity, said, — 


486 


HAMMEK SMITH : 


“ Come, Tom dear. We shall be losing the dancing ! ” 
And Goldie added, — 

“Well, Miss Mabel, we are allowed by the sphinx to 
forego these ceremonies on some occasions, — when a 
person has conscientious scruples about repeating from the 
Koran, for instance. You have scruples of that sort, 
haven’t you? ” 

“Yes, yes — I suppose so,” answered the mystified 
young woman. 

“ I thought so. And we can permit you to go in, if 
you’ll promise solemnly never to divulge what you may 
see, or hear, or feel ” — 

“ Oh, gracious ! ” said Miss Mabel. 

“ Under penalty of losing the devotion of yours truly, 
George Goldie,” he added sotto voce to her, as Tom and 
Miss Darby were passing in ahead. She said “ Oh, gra- 
cious ! ” again, and continued to make use of that and 
many other exclamations, as they examined the mysteries 
and wonders of that elaborate old society, whose name 
they had heard so often, and with such awful forebodings. 

Other couples were before them, sitting in the cosey 
window-seats, turning over the famous painted pro- 
grammes of the society, scrutinizing the anomalous toilets 
of the male-women actors whose photographs hung about 
on the walls, taking down a musty volume here and there 
from the ample library ranged about the rooms, and dip- 
ping into some few secret mysteries that cannot bear tran- 
script to these pages. 

“What funny, funny, looking actresses you men make ! ” 
exclaimed Miss Mabel. 

“ Some of them are mighty good, I think,” said Goldie. 

“ You should have seen Ruddiman, the other evening, 
as Juliet ! ” added Tom ; and, as they were leaving, that 
effulgent 3 r oung gentleman, to-day as sombre and severe 
as all his class, to be sure, in evening-dress of faultless 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


487 


cut, entered with Miss Malachite, the proudest man in all 
Cambridge. 

“ How d’ye do? ” 

“ How do you do? ” 

“Miss Malachite, Miss Hammersmith; Miss Hammer- 
smith, Miss Malachite,” said the elaborate Ruddiman ; and 
Miss Mabel bowed with the rest, and presently said, — 

“ Mr. Ruddiman, we were just talking of your acting.” 

“ Great thing ! ” said the young man. “ Immense suc- 
cess, no end of applause ! Seen my photo ? Permit me 
— I was just bringing a couple to hang up in the rooms.” 
And the jocund fellow pulled out a pencil, wrote “ Com- 
pliments of Robt. Ruddiman” on the back of a cabinet 
photograph that he took from his pocket, and handed it to 
Miss Hammersmith. 

“Is that you? Really! I never should have known 
it ! ” she said. “ How handsome ! ” 

“Well, I like that ! ” said Ruddiman, firing up. 

“ What ! Oh, you know what I mean ! I didn’t sup- 
pose you could make up so well. — And that is my poor 
old gown, Tom, that you borrowed! — And who did up 
your hair — I mean, where did you get your wig ? It is 
a wig, isn’t it? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” answered Ruddiman ; and the mysteries of 
the club hair-dressing and other adornment were explained, 
while the photograph was passed around, and criticised. 

“ I wish I were a young man ! ” exclaimed Miss Mabel, 
as they were making their way to the green for a dance, in 
that pretty bygone fashion of the day, destructive though 
it. may have been to delicate slippers and skirts. “We 
girls have no chance at all compared to you men. Look 
at our wishy-washy schools ! And what a lovely time you 
lave here ! ” 

“You can’t judge from to-day, Mabel,” said Tom. 
“ We have to work like Trojans in term-time ; haven’t we, 
George?” 


488 


HAMMEKSMITH : 


“ Yes,’’ said Miss Darby slily, answering for Goldie 
“ But I’ll tell you to-night, when we are at home, what it 
Is at which thej’ work like Trojans. I wouldn’t advise 
your believing all these silly young men tell you to-day, 
Mabel.” 

“ And I wouldn’t advise your believing all that a cer- 
tain young woman may tell you about midnight, Miss 
Mabel,” said Goldie. “The imagination is very lively 
at that time of night, particularly in young women.” 

“For shame, George ! ” said his cousin ; and they saun- 
tered off, the two couples, to the dances on the green, and 
the “ fascinating ” and “ delightful ” and “ lovely ” and 
“sweet dances” in Harvard Hall, as various exuberant 
young women might have been heard to declare them 
during the course of the afternoon. 

This dancing experience was so novel and alluring to 
Miss Hammersmith, she had so recently obtained her 
mother’s sanction for her indulging in the round dances, 
and the merry scene before her was all so dazzling and dis- 
tracting, that I do not wonder the young girl was quite 
beside herself with pleasant intoxication of delight. 

“ Dear Mabel, you must not, you really must not, dance 
so much,” her mother would say, as she returned now 
and then to the rooms of the “ spread,” her cheeks 
flushed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. 

“ I’m not dancing too much, mother dear,” she would 
say ; “ but the music is so lovely that I can’t keep still.” 
And she would go off on the arm of Goldie, Freemantle, 
Fayerweather, or some other young student, for more 
dances and more delicious intoxication. 

Miss Darby, graver than her wont under the sense of 
Tom’s approaching departure for the war, danced but 
little, took a turn of the green, visited Harvard Hall and 
several “ spreads ” with Hammersmith, and sat quietly a 
large part of the time with Mrs. Hammersmith and the 
rest. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


489 


“Happy fellow, Hammersmith!” men womd say to 
each other, as Tom and his beautiful young love sailed 
about the yard and the old buildings. 

“ How proud they look ! ” would be the exclamation of 
envious beauties, or plebeian strangers, who looked on at 
the handsome, happy couple moving about, really too 
happy to speak, and so wearing an air of silent haughti- 
ness not unlikely to provoke comment. 

4 4 My dear Emily, you ought to be the happiest woman 
in the quadrangle to-day,” Mr. Gayton said to Mrs. Ham- 
mersmith during the afternoon, 44 with such a beautiful 
girl, — two such beautiful girls, I may say, — and such a 
fellow as Tom before your eyes. What a swell the young 
fellow is ! ” 

“Please, not that name, Gayton,” the quiet mother 
answered. 44 He is only Tom to me ; and I could be very, 
very happy, if the thought of his going away to the war 
were not in my mind continually. It will break my 
heart ! ” 

44 Pooh, pooh ! Excuse me, dear Emily ; but I remem- 
ber you used that very expression when Tom was about 
to be sent away to college. Was it a hundred years ago? 
No, pardon me, four,” bowing elaborately as he said this ; 
44 and here is the young fellow alive and well, and a great 
man in his class, as you must allow.” 

44 Yes ; but this is a very different matter,” the mother 
answered; and all the 44 Duke’s” skill as a diplomatist 
was called into play to cheer her, and to make her son’s 
departure seem the most natural, the most honorable, 
course in the world, — the very one that all able-bodied 
roung Hammersmiths were fond of following, from the 
earliest history of the family. 

The dances were over; the crowds in the quadrangle 
were immensely increased as evening came on ; and the 
day was going out lixe a gorgeous sunset, rich with color, 
flashing with many-hued radiance. 


490 


HAMMERSMITH : 


It was while stopping, almost breathless, from the mst 
dance in Harvard Hall, that Miss Hammersmith was 
aware of a pensive figure leaning against a column, and 
watching the whirling couples in the centre of the floor. 

She was on the arm of Goldie ; and, as she passed the 
figure in question, she said with a light ah', — 

“ Why so pensive, Mr. Ruddiman? ” 

* ‘ Oh ! — I — was thinking — I was thinking of graduat- 
ing, of leaving all these endearing young charms and the 
old university,” answered the mournful youth, with a 
sudden accession of regretful tenderness. 

“ Ah, I’m sorry for you, Mr. Ruddiman! It must be 
so hard ! ” the young woman said quietly. She looked so 
mischievous, however, and she glanced so involuntarily to 
a certain couple gliding gracefully about in the crush of 
dancers, — a couple on which Ruddiman’ s eyes were also 
fastened, — that Ruddiman felt uncomfortable. He never 
could quite make Miss Hammersmith out. She had so 
casual a way of saying things, making such accidental 
double entendres , that he could never tell just how much 
was badinage, just how much was serious. She was very 
happy, certainly, and very merry, this afternoon. Goldie 
had been her devoted squire from noon till now ; and we 
cannot blame the cheerful girl if she dropped a little chaff 
with the doleful Ruddiman, and if such things as trials 
and tribulations seemed quite out of the pale of possible 
things in the fulness of her sunny joy. 

So Ruddiman was left consuming himself with jealousy 
as Freemantle and Miss Malachite danced and talked 
in low tones before his very eyes, and wishing quite a 
catalogue of unkind wishes for his free and easy classmate 
in return for his cutting in, and stealing Miss Malachite 
away from his table, and monopolizing her ever since, — 
monopolizing her as well in the pensive evening, when the 
rowds and the fights, the music and the thought of part- 


HIS HARVARD DAIS. 


491 


mg, filled the tender student with sentiment, and sur- 
rounded ever}'' casual maiden with a halo of romance. 

It was not a cheerful spectacle, — the noble Ruddiman 
looking at life through the smoked glasses of despair. 
But there were scores of youth in the quadrangle, dying 
just such pleasant half-deaths that afternoon and evening ; 
and we know enough of the resuscitating habit of the 
Ruddiman stock not to be fearful of his entire extinction. 
Other men have seen their innamoratas sailing away in 
the arms of successful rivals, and have yet survived : why 
should not he ? 

The same Darby group was gathered, just before sunset, 
in a spacious window of Harvard Hall, waiting for the 
unique closing exercises of the day, — the songs and rings, 
and grotesque farewell performances of the seniors about 
Liberty Tree. 

The windows of Harvard, Hollis, Stoughton, Holden, 
were alive with eager faces from ground-floor to eaves. 
Crowds filled all the available space between those halls 
and the street. Fences, trees, carriage-tops, were sur- 
mounted by youthful acrobats bent on seeing the sport. 
A large concourse of sight-seers — in carriages, on horse- 
back, on foot — blocked up the street adjacent, and drove 
the local policeman frantic. 

The under-classmen are grouped in the centre of a huge 
ring. A wreath of small bouquets circles the Liberty 
Tree at a height to which you and I might have leaped 
or scrambled when ve were lads, my dear Philippus, but 
which we would not venture to reach nowadays, for all 
the roses and posies of Christendom, and all the happy 
laughter and light applause that might reward us from the 
surrounding halls. We might be ever so anxious and 
willing ; but gravity is against us. 

The music of a band again, in the distance, followed 
it intervals by cheers ; cheers such as Miss Mabel had 


HAMMERSMITH : 


492 

not heard since Worcester of last year ; cheers such as 
set many a heart in the crowd beating, and recalled to 
many a graduate present the vigorous, joyous days of his 
prime. 

“ What are they doing, Ellen? ” asked Miss Hammer* 
smith. 

“They are cheering the buildings, for farewell,’ ’ said 
Miss Darby. 

“ How lovely, how hearty, how splendid, it all is, Ellen ! 
Why don’t you say something? ” 

“ Oh ! I’ve seen two class-days before, — Harry Goldie’s 
four years ago (just after I was home from Europe) , my 
friend Miss Fayerweather’s brother’s last year, you know.” 

“ Is it always as sweet as this? ” 

“Not always such pleasant weather. It is often fear- 
fully hot ; sometimes it rains, I believe. But there is 
usually an immense crowd, and just such excitement and 
gayety as you’ve seen to-day.” 

“But were you ever so happy? Were you ever so 
happy as to-day, Ellen? ” 

“Were you, Mabel? ” asked the other. And the two 
young girls, each as happy as girls could be, looked into 
each other’s eyes for just a brief moment, and smiled. I 
am not sure which blushed the more of the two ; I fear it 
was Miss Hammersmith : and I do not in the least blame 
a knot of juniors, sitting on the grass within the ring, for 
looking many times up at the two girls in the Harvard 
Hall window, smiling and blushing there in their beauty. 

“ Two to one on the girl with the red feather ! ” said 
one. 

“ Mine’s the girl in blue and white,” said another. 

“A basket of champagne that Goldie is engaged to 
her ! ” added a third. 

“Nonsense! He’s not such a quick bird as that. 
Give him a little time ! ” 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


493 


“ She smiled at me, by Jove ! Five to one she’ll smile 
again, Phil ! ” 

“ Everybody knows a smile will upset you, old fellow. 
One smile’s all you can stand.” 

“Here they come, fellows! Here are the seniors!” 
shouted a junior, as the seniors appeared. 

“What frights! what perfect horrors! Why, Ellen, 
why do they dress like that? ” 

“ A custom, my dear Mabel, — a custom of class-da3 r . 
You’ll see why in a few moments.” 

“ There’s Tom, and — Mr. Goldie and Mr. Albemarle 
and Mr. Ruddiman. What fearful old clothes ! What 
disgraceful hats ! Why, Tom has a new hat ! ’ ’ 

“ Yes, a custom,” chimed in Mr. Gayton. “ A 
mighty expensive little item for a young senior, you’ll see 
in a few moments, Mabel.” 

And while the Darby group, and a hundred others 
equally interested, looked on, and commented on the droll 
figures and eccentric dressing of the seniors, and a low 
murmur ran about through the crowds at hand, the seniors 
marched into the centre of the ring, and halted. 

“ Oh ! what do they do now ? Do tell me, Ellen ! I’m 
afraid I shall lose something,” said Miss Hammersmith. 

“ Have you lost any thing to-day, Mabel? ” asked hex- 
uncle, looking mischievous a moment, then glancing 
quickly out at the window, and lengthening his face. 

“No,” said she, “nothing, I think.” And then, noti- 
cing her uncle’s look, she blushed prettily, as she said in a 
low voice, “ Uncle, you’re very unkind ! I’ve not lost 
what you mean, and I don’t intend to ever! ” And the 
old gentleman of course felt very uncomfortable, and of 
course believed her, and of course concluded that he must, 
have been mistaken in thinking Mr. George Goldie most 
remarkably devoted to Ms sweet young niece during the 
entire day. 


494 


HAMMERSMITH : 


The great ringing chorus of the class song ; the hearty 
cheers for the president, the professors, the tutors, every- 
body and every thing, from the old university itself to 
the ancient handmaidens and the various sports of the 
time ; the excited singing of Auld Lang Syne, with its 
accelerated movement and gradual crescendo of impetu- 
osity ; the whirling rush about the garlanded tree, with 
the concentric rings colliding in their course, the sopho- 
mores and freshmen ending, as usual, in a fierce scrimmage, 
and an attempt to break each other’s lines ; the wild 
scramble for the flowers encircling the tree-trunk ; the vic- 
torious shouts ; the applause from the surrounding halls, 
and the long-continued and quite unprecedented hugging 
and farewells of the graduating class, — ah, how the vigo- 
rous scene comes back to me these thousands of miles 
away ! And what a thrill the memory of that festal after- 
noon, those brave young seniors, that rose-garden of youth 
and beauty blooming in the ancient hall- windows, gives an 
old graduate after the lapse of a few decades ! 

The new hat of Hammersmith’s, which excited his sis- 
ter’s comment, had been many times lifted and waved in 
air, as his old ancestor Rupert might have waved his 
chapeau at the Buena Vista charge. Mr. Tom had called 
for cheers for everybody and every thing, as has been 
said, — faculty, old university, boating, cricket, the classes 
(saving the freshmen, who set up a partisan howl on their 
own account) , the ladies, the societies, even the factotum 
“Glue,” and the body of skips and forgiven “ old pocos ; ” 
and the surrounding halls had given back mighty echoes 
of “ ’Rah, ’rah, ’rah ! ” And when at last, standing bare- 
headed, handsome, among all those manly young students 
already immensely excited, he lifted his voice and said, 
“ Now, fellows, I propose three times three cheers for our 
dear old country and the men that have gone forth from 
this place to defend her,” there was a sudden crash of 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


495 


applause and of cheers from the immense crowd in attend- 
ance. 

As he lifted his hat, and swung it in air, such cheers 
were given, by students and spectators alike, as I ima- 
gine the old Liberty Tree had rarely listened to before ; 
cheers which would have fired the hearts of Breese and 
Curtis and Farley and the rest, could they have heard 
their echo in the Virginia camp where they lay; cheers 
which did infinite honor to the happy young gentlemen 
who gave them, and which proved, that, beneath an exte- 
rior of seeming carelessness and assumed ease, there was 
a warm and abiding love of country, and a devotion to 
ideas worthy of the noble old university that had cher- 
ished them and trained them all these 3 r ears, and other 
patriots before them. 

Hammersmith has finally hurled his hat at the tree as 
a signal for the scramble to begin, Miss Hammersmith 
exclaiming, “ Good gracious ! So that’s the expensive 
custom, uncle Gajdon ! ” as she saw it trodden under foot 
by the rushing seniors, making for the tree. The wreath 
of flowers has at length been entirely torn from its place 
by the young men, who jumped and clambered, and made 
Trojan charges, combination-attacks, for it. All these 
brisk young fellows, who have been so fine in evening- 
dress and ‘faultless linen all day, now, in the oldest and 
oddest of clothes, are covered with dust, and breathing 
like war-horses. Youthful spectators have shouted ‘ ‘ Ki-yi ! 
Look at the little one ! ” as Ruddiman distinguished him- 
self by climbing over the heads and shoulders of his class- 
mates, and carrying off a small arc of the flower-circle. 
Young ladies have felt their hearts beating a trifle quicker 
as they looked down and saw the ecstatic embraces of 
their young friends, hitherto so severely decorous, so care- 
fully restrained in their devotions. The last tired class- 
mate has fallen into the arms of his friends, of his quondam 


496 


HAMMERSMITH : 


enemies, of men with whom he has hardly had a word 
during his whole college- course. The seniors have left, 
soon to re-appear, gorgeous for the evening’s festivities. 
The crowd melts away. Village urchins, bent on anti- 
quarian research, traverse and prod the field for trophies 
of the peaceful fight. The sun has long since gone down, 
with a last lingering smile on all this happy throng, this 
merry flower-scene, bright after its own sunny heart. The 
lights are lit in the quadrangle ; the cosey teas of the 
seniors are in progress ; and a few short hours of music, 
of song, of re very, of sentiment, and the glad-sorrowful 
day is over. 

The band is playing in the middle of the quadrangle. 
Rights are hung far and near under the arching elms. 
Happy couples, bathed in a delicious sea of romance, 
wander here and there through the crowds. Flood-gates 
of sentiment are opened that were never dreamed of before 
by the startled gate-keepers. Young men are talking 
proudly, hopefully, of their vast plans, their lofty aims ; 
and bright eyes flash with admiration, or melt in tender 
sympathy, as the manly youth pour forth their vows, their 
hopes, their doughty resolves. 

“Well, my little mother,” says Hammersmith, approach- 
ing his mother in the beginning of the evening, just as 
the Glee Club is mounting the stand for a song, “ how 
are you getting along? Will you go to the president’s 
reception with us? ” 

“No, Tom dear: I’m too tired. I have had a very 
happy day ; but I must go now. Gay ton will take care of 
me ; do you stay and enjoy yourself. Mrs. Darby -will 
look after the girls — will you not, Mrs . Darby ? Thanks ! ’ ’ 
And with tears in her eyes, and a pressure of Tom’s hand, 
chat meant volumes of pleasure and grief, and forecasting 
fear, to Hammersmith, the good mother left the room with 
Mr. Gayton, and returned to the Darbys’. 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


497 


“ Why are you so quiet, Ellen? ” asked Hammersmith, 
bending over Miss Darby, who sat in a window-seat, look- 
ing out. “ Why have you been so quiet all day? ” 

“ O Tom ! ” she answered, turning her face up to his. 
and taking one of his hands in both of hers, “ can’t you 
imagine? How can I help feeling sad, and being quiet, if 
you persist in going to the war, dear Tom ? ” 

“ Come, come,” said Tom, “ don’t let us think of that 
this evening ! The war may be ended before commence- 
ment ; and I’ve promised you not to go till then.” 

“ But I can think of nothing else, Tom. I’ve tried to 
forget it all day. I’ve danced, and watched every thing 
and everybody about me, and tried to imagine that it was 
all a dream, and that you were not really going, after all. 
But it is no use. I can think of absolutely nothing else. 
I have thought of nothing else for weeks ; ” and she re- 
leased his hand, and leaned her head on her own hand. 

“But see how well and happy I am! And what a 
‘merry scene this is!” said Hammersmith. “Don’t let 
us prophesy evil on a night like this, Ellen dear ! ” 

“But I cannot help it, Tom. I cannot help dreading 
your going. You are always rushing into danger so ! ” 
And Tom was leaning over to speak words of comfort to 
her, when “ One, two, three, Hammersmith ! ” came in a 
great chorus from the Glee Club ; and he dretf back, 
saying, — 

“ Pshaw, I forgot those fellows were looking up here ! 
Shall I go down? I’ll do any thing that you say to-night, 
Ellen, except ” — 

“ Yes, except,” she said mournfully. 

“ Except promising you not to go to the war.” 

“ One, two, three, Hammersmith ! ” came up again from 
the quadrangle. Miss Darby said, “ Go, Tom, they want 
you ; but don’t stay long. ’ ’ And Mr. Tom went down, and 
was soon singing away with the club. But his thoughts 


498 


HAMMERSMITH : 


were far away from the music in hand ; away with Breese 
and the rest at the post of danger ; awa} T on the wild 
journey which his hopes and fears led him, when he 
thought of the dear girl in the window-seat yonder, whom 
he loved only less dearly than his country and his honor. 

u Come, Ellen, let us go to the reception/ * he said, 
returning after a while to Miss Darb}\ “ You have been 
sitting here too long, thinking of the war and all that.” 

“ I’d rather not go to the reception, Tom,” she said ; 
‘‘ but I’ll take a little walk, if you wish.” And they went 
out, and made a tour of the quadrangle ; strangely and 
yet not strangely silent, under the influence of their com- 
mon thought; silent too, as their memories went back 
over the short years of Hammersmith’s Cambridge life, 
packed full of events that had been drawing them gradu- 
ally but surely together. 

Then they passed out of the yard, and traversed many 
of the familiar promenades in the neighborhood of the 
college. All Cambridge was floating in a golden atmos- 
phere of pensive revery, and tender, melancholy senti- 
ment ; and these two young hearts were touched as they 
had never been before with the sweet sadness of parting 
and the new thought of their terrible dependence on each 
other. 

What they said on that peaceful, starlit night, as the}’ 
paced the leafy avenues of the town, within sound of the 
music from the quadrangle ; how Mr. Tom pointed out 
many a spot here and there, made interesting to him (ami 
now to her) by boyish adventures of his ; how he tried to 
draw her mind from the sad thought of separation and of 
battle-fields, — it does not concern us to inquire. 

It was a difficult task to free her from this bitter, blind- 
ing fear ; a difficult task to make her believe, that, in a few 
bhort weeks, he would be returning to lay his spurs at her 
feet. For not only to Miss Darby, but to scores of others 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


499 


.n the merry quadrangle that day, had come the thought 
of the nameless dangers to which many of these young 
men, their brothers, their sons, their lovers, were so soon 
to expose themselves. 

A deep, solemn undertone of sadness, a bitter refrain, 
trom out the hearts of mothers and sisters and sweet- 
hearts, had been singing itself all day under the light 
music, the gay, festive songs of revelry. And the hearts 
of the young men, which beat so proudly that day, were 
themselves smitten with a sense of the noble rage, the 
Mgh responsibility, of the conflict that called them. 

It was as if a jolly woodland party were feasting and 
making merry under sun-flecked foliage, all unconscious, 
or but dimly conscious, of the muttering thunder and the 
leaping lightning of a fierce summer storm approaching 
apace. The light footing of the dance was soon to give 
place to the hurried tramp of horses and men ; the festive 
music, to the clang of summoning trumpets ; and all 
the light laughter and sentiment and merrymaking, to be 
drowned in the hoarse roar of conflict. 

“ Dear Ellen, 3'ou would not have me turn my back on 
my duty! ” Tom said, as they were returning across the 
Delta to the quadrangle, Miss Darby leaning heavily on 
his arm. 

“No, of course not, Tom,” she answered. “ But one 
man more or less, — w r hat can it matter? ” 

“One man may save a whole country!” exclaimed 
Hammersmith ; “a whole cause, a whole side, a whole 
army! Look ! ” said he, “ here is the ver} r place where 
Breese saved our freshman game four years ago ! You 
saw it. You know how it was done ? It was done by one 
man’s being plucky, and mad with fine anger, and care- 
'ess of himself, so that only he could serve his fellow?, and 
win the victory.” 

“ Yes, I know,” said Miss Darby. 


500 


HAMMERSMITH : 


“ And what would Breese say, do you think, if he knew 
that I was hesitating about joining him ! I am not hesi- 
tating ; I have never hesitated — except, dear Ellen, when 
I have thought of you and mother and Mabel; ” and 
leaned towards her, and spoke in a low voice, to which 
Miss Darb } 7 inclined her ear. 

“Yes,” she said, “ war is always the hardest on the 
women, Tom. ,, 

“ But }’ou would not have the men cowards and shirks ! ” 
he exclaimed. “You would not have them stand wring- 
ing their hands, and let their country be torn to pieces ! 
No, death, grief, any thing, is better than that ! I would 
rather fall in my first fight, with my face to the enemy, 
than to live, and feel that I had shirked my duty. You 
would prefer it so, too, dear Ellen ; yes, I know you 
would.” But she only clung the closer to his arm, and 
made no answer. 

“ As you say, what is one man more or less ! ” he went 
on. “But I mean it in a different sense. And what 
great matter, if I do fall ? 99 

“ O Tom, Tom ! 99 she said. 

“ If I fell, it would be with your love in my heart, dear 
Ellen, and your name on my lips ; and I would have them 
for eternity ! And you would be proud that I had died in 
such a cause 99 — 

“ Please don’t, Tom ! ” she interposed. 

“ But if I staid at home, and saw others plunge in and 
do the fighting for me — Heavens, how I should feel! I 
should be ashamed of my name, ashamed to look a brave 
man in the face ; and you would be ashamed of me your- 
self, Ellen dear.” 

“ Never, Tom, never ; for I should know that you only 
staid at home for your mother’s sake and mine.” 

“Ellen, ask me any thing, make me promise you any 
tiling ; but I beg you, as you love me, as you know tha* 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


501 


I love you more dearty than all the world besides, not to 
hold me back from what I think my duty in this case. 
You don’t distrust me? You believe what I say? Yes, 
I thought so. God bless you for it ! Believe me, then, 
when I say again, what I have said so many times before, 
that I love you dearly, deeply, hopefully ; that it is only 
the thought of you and my mother that causes me a 
moment's pang, a moment’s hesitation ; but that, before 
God and you, I swear that my honor, my manhood, the 
name I bear, every thing, calls me to this war in defence 
of my country, and that every thing must give way before 
this duty.” 

They walked a moment in silence, the low night-wind 
coming with a delicious coolness to their excitement, and 
the distant music of the Glee Club detaining their thoughts 
for a brief space from the sad journey on which they were 
bound. 

“ Have I been studying the lives of the great and the 
patriotic all these years,” Hammersmith went on ; “ have 
I been taught to admire courage and honor, and noble 
daring, in all ages, from the beginning of time ; and do I 
now find myself wavering? No, no, Ellen! God knows 
how bitterly I hate to leave you. God knows kow eagerly 
I shall look forward to the time when I can come back to 
you, never to be away from you. But now my mind is 
made up — I must go ! ” 

The low sobbing which he felt at his side, and which 
went to his heart as he spoke, broke into a single cry of 
grief ; and, as he bent over the fair form on his arm, she 
lifted her face, which he and the stars looked down upon, 
and saw was bright with tears. Then she said, — 

“ You are right, dear Tom : you must go. I was very 
weak to think of keeping you. But I never loved any- 
body in my life before : it makes it all the harder to bear 
the thought of being separated from you now. But, when 


HAMMERSMITH : 


t>02 

you talk as you did just now, Tom, I feel how weak 1 
have been ; I feel how much stronger and nobler you are 
than I, — yes, yes, please let me say so, Tom ! it is sweet 
to me to say it, — and I love you for it, and am thankful 
to God for sending } 7 ou to me.” 

And presently she added, “ You will promise to take 
good care of yourself, Tom? You will promise not to 
expose yourself more than is necessary? ” 

He saw how her mind was torn and agitated with 
anxiety ; and so he answered lightly, — 

“ Bless your little heart, Ellen, of course I will ! I’ve 
no great desire to be mowed down by a cannon-ball. I’ve 
no intention of swallowing hot shot by way of matutinal 
amusement. I shall dodge every ball I can see, of 
course ; and climb trees, when the engagement is too hot ; 
and bury myself in baggage-wagons at every opportu- 
nity ” — 

“ Oh, I know you will never do that, Tom ! ” she inter- 
posed more cheerfully. As they were entering the quad- 
rangle, on their return, they fell again into a more serious 
mood ; and Hammersmith said, — 

“ How can I help taking care of myself, my dear Ellen, 
when I have you to look forward to, and 3'our love to 
cheer me at ever} 7 turn of fortune ! Remember what I 
have said to you to-night; remember that I have never 
told the least fraction of an untruth to you in my life, and 
that I mean all that the words imply, when I say that the 
world would be very dark indeed, and life not worth the 
Living, if I did not know that I had your love and trust 
and confidence. You know that you have mine, dear 
Ellen; and God surety does not mean that we shall be 
separated, or that I shall fall, as you fear, in my first 
campaign.” 

“I shall pray that you may not, Tom; but I wish I 
could be sure of it. I wish I could free myself from the 
terrible dread that chokes me ! ” 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


503 


Wlien they went back to the quadrangle and Hammer- 
smith’s rooms, they were very quiet and subdued ; and 
Mr. Tom felt himself as much consecrated, ennobled, and 
uplifted by this young woman’s love, as ever a young 
knight that buckled on his armor, and went forth to win 
his spurs, with the noble words of knighthood in his ears, 
and his fair love’s favor on his lance. 

Class-dajr, with its tender sentiment and lingering fare- 
wells, is over. 

The baccalaureate sermon, preached two days later, in 
the chapel, by the beloved Dr. Brimblecom, is past. It 
was deep and earnest, tender and thoughtful, filled with 
all manner of cheerful augury and manly exhortation for 
the young men just leaving these scenes of their tutelage, 
and entering the warfare of life. Taken in connection 
with all the sweetly-sad influences of class-day, — the final 
farewells, the preparations for departure, the swearing of 
eternal friendships, — it made a profound impression on 
the young students, who had so often clambered into these 
same chapel-seats in headlong haste, somewhat regardless 
of the sanctity of the service ; the young students, who 
were now opening their eyes for almost the first time on 
the real problem of life, and the man’s part that they were 
to play in the world. 

Commencement and Phi Beta Kappa days are past, 
when graver masculine throngs again filled the old building, 
and enjoyed more strictly literary entertainments, relieved 
by the great collegiate dinners in Harvard Hall, to be sure, 
and the numberless symposia of the classes of graduates, 
which met for class business throughout the different halls. 

The last college-exercise is over. The last college and 
tradesman’s bill is paid (let us fondly hope) . The young 
graduates have each packeci away carefully among their 
university belongings the little sheepskins which pro- 


504 


HAMMERSMITH : 


claim in elaborate Latin that they are bachelors of arts, 
with omnia insignia et jura ad hunc lionorem spectantia. 
Such men as are so minded have called to bid good-by to 
their professors, their tutors, their Cambridge friends ; 
and the last tie that binds the class of Hammersmith to 
the old university as undergraduates is severed. Heaven 
ordain that deeper, closer, more affectionate relations may 
draw them, as graduates, back to the kind mother that 
has borne with their youthful follies, and cherished their 
youthful lives so fondly ; and that an interest born of ex- 
perience may attach them more and more, as the years go 
by, to the problem of the college government and the 
college curriculum , under which their sons and grandsons 
shall be placed ! 

Hammersmith’s college-life, then, was over. His four 
years were past ; and whatever of good or evil influence 
they had brought him, whatever of earnestness and 
wisdom they had ingrafted on his native sturdiness and 
impulsiveness of temperament, whatever they had given 
him in the way of friends and counsellors and loving 
life- companions, — all was behind him now; all but the 
sweet memory and kindling enthusiasm born of this hearty 
quadriennium of his life ; all but the living faith in him- 
self, his own powers, the nobility of correct living and 
high endeavor ; all but the few strong friends among his 
classmates who were bound to him, he felt convinced, as 
by bands of iron, and hooks of steel ; all but a professor 
or a tutor here and there who had been drawn to him, 
and was likely to remain his friend ; all but this fair being 
at his side, cheering him, strengthening him, more than 
all these, by her love and her trust. 

And when, with numbers of his classmates, he left, 
soon after commencement, for the seat of war, it was 
with many backward glances, you may be sure, at the 
happy spot where so many splendid days of his youth had 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


505 


oeen passed. It was a heart as heavj^ as poor Breese’s 
that he carried away with him that day ; but, ah, so dif- 
ferently freighted from that of Breese ! For it was filled 
heavy with love and anxiety, and infinite tenderness for 
the dear girl left weeping under her Cambridge elms, — 
the fair Oriana, who had shown herself at her lattice, and 
smiled upon him, when he was fighting his bitter fight with 
himself and the world. 

Into that sterner fight, those redder battle-fields, where 
he found himself so soon, he carried the memory of 
that sweet, courageous face, as many a man who marched 
shoulder to shoulder with him was carrying some other 
dear features continually before him. Heaven only knows 
what strength and courage it gave him, as such a memory 
and such a hope give any man who believes that a pure, 
sincere, and loving woman is the brightest blessing that 
the sun in all his wandering shines upon. 


506 


HAMMEESMITH : 


CHAPTER XXXII 


EXEUNT OMNES 


44 What is the fate of a brave man, but to fall amid the foremost? He who li 
■ever wounded has a weary lot.” — Death-Song of Regnar Lodbrog. 


44 Their good swords rust, 

And their steeds are dust; 

But their souls are with the saints, we trust.” 


EWS of a bloody struggle on a Southern battle- 



-i- ^ field had sent a thrill, and a wail of consternation, 
throughout the entire North. Bulletins from the seat of 
war were being scanned with an anxiety which was almost 
blinding to those who had friends and relatives in that 
unhappy army, (as who had not?) when the following 
letter came to Miss Darby in her Cambridge home, bring- 
ing a sad relief to her fearful suspense : — 


Hospital, Washington, 19 July, 186-. 


My deab Miss Dauby, — I promised you, that, if Tom ever 
joined us down here, I would look after him, and keep you in- 
formed of his welfare : so I send you this line of news. 

He is all right. Do not be alarmed. He has been wounded, not 
very severely, in the sword-arm, and sits propped up in the next 
bed to mine, smoking a placid pipe, taking his otium cum dig., as 
he just tells me to say to you. He cannot write, of course, and so 
commissions me to send you this word for him. He will scrawl a 
..eft-handed postcript, he says, to show you that he is not entirely 
used up, and that I am not deceiving you with pleasant hopes. 

I will not tell you how it all happened, hut leave that to Tom, 
who will see you in a few days. But, as the brave fellow will not 
tell you more than half the truth about his own exploits and 
behavior on that terrible day, I will say just a few words as t« 
how it came about. 


HIS HAHYAHD DAYS. 


507 


You see we were on the extreme left of our division. The 
papers and despatches will have told you how tremendously out- 
numbered we were by the “ rebs,” and how division after division 
was ambushed and almost decimated. The memory of it all is so 
Bickening and horrible to me, that I cannot dwell on it. It was 
•»uch a carnage and slaughter as I pray Heaven I may never see 
again. I do not wonder now at peace societies and philosophers, 
who cry out against the insane demonism of war. 

Well, we were marching ahead in the gray of the morning, 
hearing firing and heavy cannonading on our right, rather in 
advance of our line; and just as we were crossing a narrow clear- 
ing, which seemed to have been recently made, we were met by 
the most terrific fire, apparently from all sides at once, — left, right, 
and front. We stood our ground for a few moments and exchanged 
several rounds with the enemy; but it was no use. They out- 
numbered us three to one ; and we almost immediately heard a 
terrible shouting and screaming and stampede on our right, which 
we thought at first meant re-enforcements for the “rebs,” but 
found afterwards to be our own army in retreat on the road that 
we had just left. 

The “rebs” came pouring out of the woods, yelling like sav- 
ages; men were falling about me on every side; and just as our 
column wavered, and turned to run, the color-sergeant was killed. 
The colors lay for a moment neglected on the ground ; and the 
next instant a man seized them, lifted them with a shout which 
could be heard above the roar of the conflict, and faced the ene- 
my. I shall remember that shout as long as I live, Miss Darby, 
and longer. It was Tom; and he shouted and shouted again, as 
he stood with his hat off, his hair floating in the breeze, “My 
God, men, but what is this? Stand, men, stand!” And for a 
brief moment there was a halt and a rally by those within sound 
of his voice. I could have cried to see the brave fellow standing 
‘here, holding the colors, and shouting to the men. I need not 
say that I thought of you, my dear Miss Darby, and prayed that 
the dear fellow might come out safe and sound for your sake, if 
.‘or no other reason. 

The captain of our company rushed past, going to the rear. 
Hammersmith shouted at him. The captain returned, “ It is no 
use, sir: you had better look out for yourself.” And, if you could 
have seen the look of scorn that came into Tom’s eyes, I know 
you would have been prouder of him than ever (if that were 
aossible), and would have rushed to him a3 Goldie and Thorpe, 


508 


HAMMER SMITH : 


Curtis and I, did, the moment we saw who it was that was holding 
the colors, and shouting. 

It seemed for a moment as if the rout had really been stayed. 
Our men had turned, and commenced firing, when a ball struck 
Tom in the arm. The colors went down again for just an instant, 
and though Thorpe and I seized them, and shook them aloft in a 
trice, it was no use. One of those panics which take hold of the 
best of troops seized our men. We were left almost alone with 
the colors in the centre of the clearing; and we turned reluc- 
tantly to flee. 

Tom had fallen on being wounded ; I had been struck with a 
fragment of a spent shell, which took away my breath, and stag- 
gered me ; and it seemed impossible for us to succeed in getting 
Tom from out the clutches of the “rebs,” when a company of 
California cavalry, riding as I never saw men ride before in all 
my life, came swinging up through the woods on our right, and 
dashed in between us and the “ rebs.” They slashed and fired 
away at the “rebs,” shouting like wild Indians, and leaning from 
their saddles to the right and the left as they galloped ; and the 
“rebs” were checked in their advance, retreating to their cover. 
The slashing and firing were still going on, and I began to feel 
faint, and forget where I was, when a horseman came dashing up 
to where we fellows were holding Tom and the colors. “ Good 
heavens !” he shouted. “ Is this you, Breese ? And Goldie! And 
Thorpe! Who is that in the middle? Wounded? What, Tom! 
Tom, my dear old Tom! ” And he was off his horse like a shot, 
&nd hugging the old fellow till I thought he would squeeze all the 
breath out of his body. Tom smiled feebly, and we all felt a 
kittle tearful (if I may judge from my own state of mind) ; for we 
recognized in this slashing rider, bearded like a p<t,rd, and tough 
as a bison, Penhallow, our old classmate, and Tom’s old chum. 

It was no time for reminiscences, however. We exchanged greet- 
ings rapidly, scarcely believing our senses, and thinking at the 
rate of a hundred ideas to the second. Then Pen said, “ Come, 
Tom, up in my saddle, old boy! Yes, yes, I’ll go with you;” and 
we helped Tom to mount. He was scarcely mounted when Pen- 
hallow gave a spring, with one hand on the rear of the saddle; 
was seated on the horse’s back, behind Tom, before we knew how 
he was going to manage it ; and putting his arms round Tom, and 
digging his spurs into his horse’s flanks, he went tearing away 
with him at a rapid jump. We gave a feeble cheer, which sounds 
dismal enough to me as I recall it, and then turned to save our« 


HIS HAKVAED DAYS. 


509 


lelves; for the cavalry had only temporarily delayed the “i*ebs,” 
and that miserable rout of which you have heard so much was 
already in full progress. 

I need not tell you how we all reached Washington. I have 
written too much already. I feel very tired, and have occasion- 
ally to catch my breath. They cannot make out just what is the 
matter with me. Goldie is all right, came out without a scratch. 
Curtis is missing. Thorpe is badly wounded in the leg. 

Tom goes home day after to-morrow. Goldie will accompany 
him. Tom can be of no service for some weeks, and has a fur- 
lough of a month. I have written his uncle Gayton by this mail 
to meet him in New York: he will, of course, be delighted beyond 
measure if you can make it convenient to meet him there or at 
home. 

I must take this place, my dear Miss Darby, to offer my con- 
gratulations on your engagement. You have gained the love of 
one of the best fellows that the sun ever shone upon, and I thank 
Heaven that you are happy. God bless you! God bless you! 

Always devotedly yours, 

John Breese. 

Following this letter, which moved Miss Darby not a 
little, and left her bathed in tears, came a few scrawled 
lines of Tom’s. She pressed them to her lips, and petted 
them fondly, and cried over them, as she had cried over 
nothing since that sad, sad day when he had waved a 
good-by from the ranks as he marched away with his 
heart in his mouth. They ran as follows : — 

My dear little Wood-Nymph, — Don’ t worry. I’m all right. 
Eight arm a bit useless; that’s all. Not good for much fighting 
or boxing for some time. Leave for home day after to-morrow. 
Uncle Gayton will call on you. Come if you can. I have some- 
thing important to say to you. 

My love to your mother and the professor. I thought it was 
all up with me for a while; never expected to see you again. 
Came near having my wish, of falling in my first fight. Are you 
glad that I did not? Goldie and Breese and Penhallow — well 
[’ll tell you all about them; stunning fellows. No Perihallow, 
no Hammersmith; great tiling! Brass monument to Penhallow 
mighty horseman 1 


510 


HAMMERSMITH : 


Poor Breese is miserable. I do not let him see it; but I’m very 
much worried about him : so are doctors. I can get him furlough ; 
but he will not leave. 

Au revoir. How is this for a left-handed opus f I feel like an 
old veteran ; perhaps you will not know me. Think you will ? 
Hope so. 

Lovingly thine, 

Tom. 

Two weeks later the village bells were ringing merrily, 
the village heart was dancing gayly, at the little hamlet 
on the banks of the Hudson where Hammersmith's early 
days had been passed. 

Milliners, jewellers, tailors, and haberdashers had been 
put hastily to work to do their very neatest handiwork in 
preparation for a certain occasion very interesting to young 
people generally, and to Mr. Tom Hammersmith and Miss 
Darby in particular. 

Mr. Gajdon Hammersmith, in faultless blue frock-coat, 
immaculate linen, the shiniest of boots, the rosiest and 
happiest of moods, sat reading the early morning New- 
York papers in the darkened library of “ Ivy Hill." 
The feminine portion of the household was pleasantly 
engaged in those delightful preliminaries which go before 
such interesting occasions, — all of them except Miss 
Mabel, who was wandering in the shrubbery with Mr. 
Goldie, regardless of her delicate finery ; and Miss 
Fayerweather, who stood near the “Duke" in the 
library, pulling on a pair of gloves of fabulous length 
and number of buttons. 

There is a rustle on the stairwa}’ ; and a beautiful young 
creature glides into the room, smiling and blushing as she 
surveys herself in the pier-glass. 

Mr. Gayton drops his paper, advances as he migh 
advance to the Queen of Sheba, or any other dazzling 
potentate that could be mentioned, and performs a salute 
on her fair brow that causes her to blush still more, and 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


511 


still more prettily ; that causes Mr. Tom, coming* iu be- 
hind her, to shake his fist menacingly at the rapacious 
“Duke,” and Mr. Gayton himself to turn, and grasp 
Tom’s honest left hand, saying, — 

“Couldn’t help it, Tom! Couldn’t help it! I knew 
you were hors de combat, too, as to your dexter hand ; 
and so I didn’t fear you.” 

“ The left is my favorite, sir,” Mr. Tom answered. 
And his uncle added, — 

“God bless you, my boy! God biess you! It is 
worth going to the war for, eh? ” 

And when Mr. Tom marched down the aisle of the 
church a half-hour later, after the brief ceremony was 
over, with his bride on his arm, and the sweet village 
choir made music above them as they* went, more than 
one pair of eyes in that cosey little church was dim with 
tears, more than one heart beat quickly to see that hand- 
some young couple advancing so proudly, so confidently, 
so trustingly, — the great broad-shouldered soldier, with 
his arm in a sling, and a firm, determined look about the 
mouth ; the sweet young bride, with downcast eyes, and 
head bent slightly forward, leaning heavily on his arm. 

It is an interesting occasion indeed, on which, with its 
attendant festivities, I might like to finger with Mr. Tom 
and the rest, were it only to gratify the curiosity of mj r 
young feminine readers (if, haply, I am so fortunate as to 
have such at this stage of the chronicle). But the pen 
of the biographer is weary with a history already pro- 
tracted far beyond its original limits ; and a single act yet 
.emains, before the curtain shall go down on the char- 
acters, young and old, with whom Mr. Tom’s college-fife 
was intimately associated. 

The flying trip which the young couple made to Albany 
and Lake Champlain, a favorite haunt of Hammer- 
smith’s younger years, was over, and the time for Tom’s 


512 


HAMMERSMITH: 


return to his regiment had nearly come, when one of 
those fatal yellow envelopes which strike terror into so 
many hearts was handed to Mr. Tom. He opened it 
hastily, and read, — 

Washington, Aug . 15, 18&-. 

Thos. Hammersmith, The Landing, Hudson River, N.Y. 

Breese failing rapidly. You had better come on at once 

G. Goedib. 

He passed it without a word to his wife. 

“ When can we go? ” she asked. 

“ Good ! I’m glad you’ll go, Ellen,” he said. 

“ Of course I shall go. When is the first train? ” 

“ In an hour and a half, if we can flag the express.” 

The next morning the young soldier and his beautiful 
bride were in Washington, making their way to the hospi- 
tal which Hammersmith had so recently left, Goldie meet- 
ing them with a carriage at the station. 

It was by no means the first time that Mrs. Tom Ham- 
mersmith had entered the wards of a hospital, and yet it 
was ; for, often as Miss Darby had gone on her delicate 
errands of mercy to the little Cambridge hospital, this was 
the first time that she had crossed the threshold of one 
of those sad, solemn houses as Mrs. Tom. 

It was with a strange mingling of courage and timidity 
that she advanced after her cousin Goldie, through the 
long fine of white beds, whose occupants stared not a 
little, and opened pleased eyes of admiration at the beau- 
tiful apparition and her manly escort; some of them 
nodding familiarly to Mr. Tom. 

She was courageous, because she was walking proudly, 
in the consciousness of youth and health and happiness, 
on the arm of Mr. Tom, a hero, who had been one in 
her eyes, long before the episode of the colors had come 
to stamp him with its imprimatur. She was timid, foi 
she was going to meet the man who had placed all his life, 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


513 


his genius, Iiis nobility of character, at her feet, and who 
had gone off, like the brave-hearted gentleman that he 
was, to meet the enemy, perhaps his death, at the call of 
his country. 

More than once, too, he had come to the rescue of her 
beloved Tom, as on this final battle-field ; and now he 
was lying at the portal of death, perhaps even now beyond 
the power of recognizing his old friends, his old class- 
mates. 

It was as Goldie had feared. Breese did not recognize 
them. He was in one of his wandering moods again. 
He only opened his eyes in wonder, as Tom advanced and 
put his arm about his neck, and smiled sadly, when Ellen, 
her eyes filled with tears, stooped and kissed his broad 
forehead, white as a girl’s now, after his month’s confine- 
ment in the hospital. 

The next day, and the next, it was the same. 

But, on the evening of the third day, he smiled more 
cheerfully as the friends came forward, and, reaching out 
his hand, said naturally enough, — 

“Ah, Miss Darby, I am so glad to see you! ” And 
then he relapsed quiet, closing his eyes as if from excess 
of happiness. 

“Yes, I’m here,” returned Mrs. Tom, taking one of 
his great hands in hers, “and you are looking better; 
and I’m glad you know us,” she added. But he kept his 
eyes closed for a long, long while, and at length opened 
them quickly, saying in an excited voice, — 

“It’s getting dark, Miss Darbj T . Hadn’t I better 
shout for your father? The woods are very lonesome at 
night.” And presently again, as the friends bowed 
their heads, — 

“It’s getting dark, Miss Darby. I don’t see but 1 
shall have to carry you.” He leaned forward quickly, 
and put out his arms, as if he would take her up, as on 


514 


HAMMERSMITH : 


that dark night of the Mount Desert accident , so man} 
months ago. Tom would have caught him, if his dis- 
abled arm had allowed ; but, before he could put his left 
arm about him, Ellen had thrown her arms about the sick 
man’s shoulders, and supported him. 

Presently he said with a glow of satisfaction, — 

“Ah, they’re coming! I see the lights! I’m very 
sorry you are in pain, Miss Darby.” 

Then his mind seemed to take a long jump from Mount 
Desert, as Tom caught hold of one of his hands ; and he 
exclaimed eagerly, — 

“ My God, what is this, men ! Where are the colors? 
Ah, Tom! ” And with this last word on his lips, and 
the arms of the only woman that he had loved in all the 
world about him, — the woman whom he would have died 
to serve, whom he had served with a patient, pure, and 
noble life, — he dropped his head on her shoulder. He 
had found peace and rest at last. 


The soft summer wind was stirring in the tree-tops 
below the opened windows. Across the Potomac, Tom, 
looking mournfully out, saw the fair wooded slopes of 
Arlington Heights, surmounted by the colors that had 
been the last thought in Breese’s mind. An evening gun 
came dreamily, in softened echo, across the intervening 
water. The muffled beat of a passing regimental band 
was faintly heard. Far down the winding reaches of the 
river, dotted with sails and flags, and over the city quiver- 
ing with the very life-heart of the nation, the setting sun 
was throwing a golden light, which transfigured every 
commonest object, and told of places where war and con- 
flict and carnage are things unknown. All the world 
seemed at peace for that brief moment, and all sweet in- 
fluences to unite in proclaiming quiet and calm and infinite 
test, when the great soul of Breese, which had been 


HIS HAIIVA-RD DAYS. 


515 


Riled with such noble planning, and had so vexed itself in 
the pursuit of the purest ideals here below, was flooded 
*vith the light which searches every ideal, and glorifies 
every patient, struggling spirit. 

God keep him ! And God grant that the memory of 
him, and such as he, — their steadfast lives, their noble 
deaths, — ma}^ blossom in heroic example, and dayswisety 
spent ; that, above all, the youth who succeed him and 
Ills fellows in the old university halls may not quite for- 
get the bright lesson that they set, — a lesson easy to all 
who have the courage to dare, and the stout heart to fol- 
low great plans. 


And now, when these annals are compiled, the long 
agony of the war is many years past, and the fickle Fates 
have ordered many a varying fortune to the young men 
associated in these pages. When they gather at com- 
mencements and rare class-days, it is with wofully thinned 
ranks, to be sure ; for the implacable Shearer has been as 
busy with the threads of their lives as has old Time with 
the hairs of their heads and the crow’s-feet about their 
young eyes. But their talk is of those old days, the hotter 
days of their college-life. All the enmity and bickerings 
of those punctilious times are quite forgot ; and the mel- 
lowing years only bring a greater ripeness and sweetness 
to the young friendships which showed their first blos- 
soms so long ago in the old university town. 

Another cottage has sprung up at Ivy Hill, which 
the stout-hearted proprietor has dubbed “ The Ledge.” 
It stands on the pinnacle of the point, whence a dozen 
long strides will take the mighty boating-man Goldie from 
his door to the boat-house and his favorite wherry. If 
vou were very inquisitive, and were to watch him some 
fair afternoon, when he comes up early from New York 


516 


HAMMERSMITH : 


bursting into the house with all his old-time enthusiasm, 
as he used to burst into Hammersmith’s room in the Cam- 
bridge days, you would see him greet a sweet young 
matron whom we have seen before, (who was very fearful, 
on a certain class-day, that she was going to have nobody 
to take care of her, and would have “ such a stupid 
time ! ”) and you might hear him say, — 

“Come, Mabel, get ready for a little pull. Tom and 
Ellen are going ; and there are some college-men staying 
at Ruddiman’s, who will join us, I think.” And present- 
ly you might see the pretty river-party floating out upon 
the broad bosom of the Hudson, Hammersmith and 
Goldie by no means forgetting the cunning which their 
early training had taught them at the oar, but not quite 
appearing to relish a “ spurt,” or a three-mile stretch, as 
in their slimmer years ; very willing to let the festive and 
ambitious undergraduates of the party attempt all that. 

Hammersmith and his wife are with his mother in 
the old home. Mr. Gayton has been weaned from h:s 
club ways sufficiently to spend a half-year annually with 
the happy young people in the two cottages (Goldie keep- 
ing a sunny room always at his command) . And there is 
a merry, full-hearted life lived among the people on that 
breezy little point, which may well detain the aging 
“ Duke,” as well as you and me, and any one who loves 
cheerfulness and happy content, wherever he sees them. 

The old “Duke” is never happier, indeed, than when 
listening to the young people’s plans, and joining, in his 
own merry way, in all their routs and festivities, yes, and 
sharing the griefs and trials that fall to their lot. He 
is a great ally of Mrs. Hammersmith mere, in her devo- 
tion to the interests of the church of which her sainted 
husband had had charge ; and he plays the part of 
great-uncle with the successful dignity and Oriental mag- 
nificence without which he yould not be Mr. Gaytou 
Hammersmith, the “ Duke-’’ 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


517 


Goldie find Hammersmith are associated, I will not say 
if in business or professional life, lest some one say, “ Oh, 
Hammersmith was never cut out for a doctor ! ” or 
another interpose, “ I hate to think of Hammersmith and 
Goldie as mewed up in a law-office ! ” or a third exclaim, 
“ Hammersmith a merchant ! Isn’t it too bad? He’s so 
honest and impulsive, that I know he’ll be cheated and 
never get on,” — for everybod} 7 must have his say and his 
little wish in disposing of the characters in a chronicle 
that interests him, as, of course, this chronicle interests 
any one who has followed patiently to this far-off page. 

So I will let every one imagine the two in whatsoever 
occupation he pleases, although I myself know very well 
what it is. I know, too, that they do “ get on,” and very 
famously, thanks to their sturdy qualities and their acute- 
ness ; and that, when I assume the distant relative’s privi- 
lege, and sit at their well-laid tables for a brief season, 
I cannot sufficiently admire and envy them their happy 
households and well-earned fortunes. 

Now and then, when a fracas occurs in the nursery 
overhead, where young John Breese Hammersmith is per- 
haps trying his small fists on his nurse, I have heard 
Hammersmith exclaim, — 

“ Confound the little beggar! Is he going to yell all 
the evening, my dear? ” 

And his wife will say, — 

“ Don’t call him by that name, Tom dear! I’m sure 
he’s not a little beggar ! That’s what you used to call 
my little orphans in the Cambridge hospital.” 

“ And that’s why I like the name,” Mr. Tom has been 
heard to say, laying down his paper. 

“You don’t think you’ve been 1 taken in,’ then? ” she 
has been known to ask, by way of reply. Then she would 
come over to Mr. Tom, — the lucky fellow ! — and stroke 
bis hair, or lay her hand in his, and — But, bless me ! the 


518 


HAMMERSMITH : 


very memory of the young fellow’s good-fortune causes & 
mist to gather over this page as I write ; and I lay down 
the pen, thanking God that I have been permitted to see 
such perfect happiness and perfect trust. For they minded 
me no more than they minded the great Newfoundland 
dog that lay on the rug, — the successor of “Trim,” — 
or the neat-handed Phillis that came in to remove the tea- 
things ; Mr. Tom occasionally exclaiming, “ Oh, never 
mind ! cousin Harry doesn’t care ; do you, Harry? ” while 
his wife would blush as becomingly as ever, and sa} r , 
“You wretched man! How can you act so!” and 
cousin Harry, the present biographer, would feel very 
uncomfortable and very envious, and very like breaking 
the commandments. Such consideration have young mar- 
ried people, as the great Lamb has suggested, for the 
feelings of less fortunate humanity ! 

Ruddiman the bold, from being quite a pronounced 
“ muff ” and do-nothing in his college-days, has developed, 
through the agency of the war (which did so much for men 
of his stamp), into a brisk junior partner in the house of 
Ruddiman and Son, where he is laying up treasures for 
himself against the day of matrimony. For he still ranges 
the world untrammelled by domestic ties, ever blithe and 
resplendent as in those golden da} T s of his youth, devoted 
as ever to the softer sex, but, for some reason unknown 
to the present writer, never succeeding in securing himself 
a mate from out the gay throngs of young women to which 
his ardent society-life introduces him. The festive gor- 
geousness of apparel which marked his youth has been 
toned down into a more business-like sobriety ; but his 
rooms in the city and in the country retain all and more 
than all of the splendor of his college-quarters. He lives 
in the midst of plunder gathered from every quarter of the 
habitable globe, around which he has made two complete 
voyages since we last saw him. The array of Indian leg 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


519 


gings and war-clubs, Persian cimeters, Oriental pipes and 
screens and squat idols, Esquimau snow-shoes, German 
smoking-caps of elaborate pattern, and a thousand other 
gimcracks, is something quite overpowering to one unac- 
quainted with the acquisitive Ruddiman habit. His house 
is full of roistering young college-men in vacation-time. 
He is devoted to his horses and other rapid friends as of 
yore. Any fine afternoon, indeed, in spring and autumn, 
you may see him prancing through Central Park, after 
office-hours, on the sleekest of horses, sporting the bright- 
est of spurs and bits, and altogether wearing a look of 
the most consummate satisfaction with himself and the rest 
of mankind. He is still a picturesque addition to the land- 
scape, as Miss Darby so long ago called him in the glen 
at Mount Desert. He is a very cheerful sight. 

Freemantle has stumbled upon a career which quite 
accommodates his languid temperament, in the manage- 
ment of extensive tobacco interests in Cuba, where he 
makes flying visits twice a year or more, returning to 
Boston with marvellous brands of cigars and tobacco, 
undreamed of by plebeian counter- customers, and regaling 
his friends with the same; where, too, his wife, nee 
Malachite, in the casual trips that she makes with him, 
has added a more captivating radiance to her already 
Spanish style of beauty ; and returning whence, the two 
are apt to stop for a time in New York, and run up to 
make a brief visit at the little colony of Harvard men on 
the banks of the Hudson. 

You may be sure that the old days and the old friends 
are talked over, wept over, and laughed over on such occa- 
sions, and that Ruddiman is in his element. He has been 
known, indeed, at various festive moments, to attempt a 
species of badinage with the dangerous Mrs. Freemantle, 
apropos of the devotion of his youth ; declaring, on one 
occasion, that nobody knew how near he came once to 


520 


HAMMERSMITH : 


making a fool of himself (this with a knowing look a\ 
Mrs. Freemantle, and a glance at the rest) ; and, of course, 
nobody felt like gainsaying him when he put it in that 
light, least of all, Mrs. Freemantle ! But they all kept 
up a tremendous amount of thinking, I doubt not, and 
probably said to themselves, as his college-friends had 
been used to say aloud, on similar embarrassing occasions, 
“ Oh, Ruddiman ! Never mind, it’s only Ruddiman ! ” 

Penhallow has not received the monument of brass for 
saving Hammersmith’s life, which Mr. Tom prophesied in 
his hospital note, to be sure ; but a sturdy friendship, 
worthy of such commemoration, still exists between the 
old college chums. 

Hammersmith has invested quite extensively in Califor- 
nia sheep and cattle, under Pen’s advice, and made quite 
recently a flying trip to the land of which he had heard so 
much extravagant praise, finding it more than justified by 
the glorious reality. He dismounted from his horse in the 
little canon by the Santa Barbara beach, while making a 
horseback trip with Penhallow through the country, and 
felt all his past life surging up before him as he looked 
down at the small slab with “ G. Tufton” rudely carved 
upon it. He felt again how small the world is, how 
one’s past life pursues him like a relentless Fury; and 
after a few words from Pen, descriptive of the memora- 
ble ride and the scene in the little canon that dark night, 
the} 7 mounted their horses, and turned sorrowfully away. 

Young Dick Hammersmith, who has long since gone 
through the old university with considerable credit and the 
usual Hammersmith experience, has joined Penhallow and 
Simmons, assuming the care of his brother’s sheep and 
'jactle. The Spanish major-domo who was left in charge 
of the stock of Simmons and Penhallow when they went 
to the war served them the trick that major-domos are apt 
to serve their principals ; and the young men, returning, 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


521 


found a sad diminution in the amount of their four-footed 
property. Care and thrift have long since made good the 
loss, however ; and, for Simmons’s part, what would he 
care for the loss of ten thousand sheep, or his entire 
patrimony, in view of the new wealth that has recently 
flowed in upon him! For what is this? and this? and 
this ? A side-saddle ! A riding-whip ! Miss Fayer- 
weather swinging in a hammock under the live-oaks ! 
Yes, Miss Fayerweather the obdurate, the spurner of 
Simmons when he was a plodding law-student of civili- 
zation, now the wife of as sterling a fellow as ever put 
foot in stirrup, or won golden spurs in the great wa^ 
which called him away to fight, and to win his love. 

There are more Boston books, more seductive ham 
mocks, more rooms, added to the old ’ dobe on the Simi ; 
and young Dick, who has so recently left his books and 
the close halls of civilization, writes home the most g low- 
ing accounts of the wild joys of Western life and the 
perfect little household of which he forms an exuberant 
member. He has a favorite phrase, that “ the great 
problem of modern life is how not to be bored to death 
by the flummeries of civilization; ” and if one may judge 
from his ecstatic sentences, and the bulletins of the young 
fellow’s height and weight, appetite and perfect happi- 
ness, one would say that he has found the life which 
suits his Hammersmith temperament at any rate, and 
might question if he were not about right, after all. At 
least you and I, my dear Philippus, knowing whereof he 
writes, and all the enchantment of the country that he 
praises, might say as much, and settle in our minds that 
he is right, entirely right, and no mistake. But then 
young Dick will be set down as an enthusiast, and you 
und I as designing people with Western lands to sell; 
so that we can hardly hope to be believed. 

And the little Boggle, who came so near causing a sud- 


522 


HAMMERSMITH : 


den finale to this biography, by reason of the remorse and 
despair of poor Hammersmith oyer his entanglement, — 
nobody ever learned to what new role , to what fresh fields, 
she descended. Penhallow and Tom included Los Angeles 
in the little trip above mentioned, and spent a few days 
among its marvellous vineyards and orange-groves, inquir- 
ing casually the while for news of her whereabouts. They 
learned nothing, except that she had left the untheatrical 
city, when, with whom, for what place, nobody knew ; 
and may God have mercy on her in her wanderings ! 


Of all the souvenirs of the happy college-days, — the 
badges, cups, oars, medals, cricket-bats, prizes, with which 
Hammersmith’s library is decorated, — there are two in 
especial that interest him above the rest, — a pair of 
boxing-gloves, hanging in an honored post above the 
mantel ; a set of books, — an Emerson, a Thoreau, a 
Marcus Aurelius, an Epictetus, a Carlyle, — with the 
strong name “John Breese,” in a bold hand, on the fly- 
leaf of each volume. 

Every August, on the nineteenth day of the month, — 
and often at other times during the year, when he is at 
nome quietly with his wife, — Mr. Tom takes down the 
well-thumbed volumes, scored with many a mark by the 
pencil of the dead Breese, and reads his favorite passages. 
As the two sit there reading and talking of their lost 
friend, their minds go back to the brave, fresh days of their 
youth, and they recall many things to make them sad, but 
more to make them glad. And, if their cousin Harry is 
present, he sits quietly in his corner, in the chaise-longue , 
pretending to be asleep ; for he knows that the couple 
there, with the books of their dear friend and their happy- 
sad thoughts between them, are busy with memories and 
reveries too sacred for his intrusion. 

Happy, happy, college-days ! When are friendships sc 


HIS HARVARD DAYS. 


523 


ardent, so unquestioning! When does the wine of life 
sparkle so brightly, so enticingly ! W r hen are the skies so 
full of rainbows ! When do we so expect to live always 
in unfailing youth ! Ah ! when, and when, and when ! 

“ They were happy, gloriously happy days, weren’t the}', 
Nell? ” Hammersmith would say as they read and mused 
by the lamplight. 

“Yes, dear Tom, but not the happiest.” 

“ No, no! But you know I’ve been 4 taken in’ since 
then; and now I’m a miserable old fellow indeed!” he 
would say, putting on a mock-lugubrious expression. And 
one of those demonstrative scenes to which I have alluded 
was very likely to ensue. At last Hammersmith would 
turn, and shout, — 

“ Halloo, Harry, wake up ! ‘ Little birds will begin to 

sing soon.’ ” And the figure in the long-chair would stir 
itself, and relate, yawning, what pleasant dreams it had 
had, — a hypocrite is cousin Harry! 

But, for all Mr. Tom’s banter, I can see that a great 
tenderness takes possession of him after one of these read- 
ings. I know that on the following day he is very apt to 
return from town laden with marvellous toys for the young 
John Breese, and extravagant presents for his wife, which 
cause her to lift her hands in thankful surprise. For the 
heart of Hammersmith is still as tender and impressiona- 
ble as a child’s (as the hearts of strong, impulsive men are 
apt to be) ; and I do not wonder that he is thankful for 
the happiness that has come to him. I do not wonder 
that he feels infinitely softened at thought of the broad- 
brained Breese, who was so near winning the love that is 
\iow his, and who died so nobly, fronting his duty. 

And Thorpe and Albemarle and Curtis, and the rest? 
Ah, it is a sad, sad page to write ; and Ball’s Bluff, Chan- 
cellorsville, Bull Run, and a score of battlefields, must be 
set down, if you would know the way that they quitted 


524 


HAMMERSMITH. 


themselves. Some have survived, — some that went down 
into that terrible war ; some bear still the marks of the 
conflict ; some feel still the effects of the foul imprison- 
ment, the low Virginia swamps, the nameless horrors of 
war. Some are already conspicuous at the bar, in the 
pulpit, with the pen, in all the varied peaceful arts. 

Yonder Memorial Hall, that lifts its calm front where 
the youth of Hammersmith’s day had their first fierce 
struggle with the truculent sophomores, has written the 
names of some on its immortal tablets, where the throng- 
ing youth of to-day, who come up annually to the old uni- 
versity, may read the bright record and the brightening 
names. The lives of these will not have been in vain, if 
they shall teach their successors in the happy college walks 
and ways, consecrated by their heroic feet, that courage, 
high daring, devoted sacrifice of self, are not alone to be 
admired among the ancient Greeks and Romans, wkh 
whose histories the youth are busy, but that the more 
prosy present is packed full of equal possibilities, and that 
simple, steadfast lives alone are glorious. 



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